


Sitting President, The

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-27
Updated: 2005-07-27
Packaged: 2019-05-30 22:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 137,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15106004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.





	1. Sitting President, The

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

**Chapter 1:** _LEO McGARRY_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

The entire White House staff had turned out, or so it seemed. They crammed the main reception hall just inside the North Portico; they edged as close as they dared to the narrow path that had been cleared down the center; they craned their necks towards the still-closed double doors. They would have climbed the pillars if they’d dared.

A more orderly crowd could scarcely be imagined, nor one with more solidarity... but their anticipation prickled around this huge foyer like sharp fingernails.

They all wanted to be here, to welcome their President home in triumph.

Leastwise, that’s what all of the mutters claimed. Leo McGarry, standing in a choice spot near the ceremonial entrance, wasn’t fooled for a second.

They just wanted to see their President with their own eyes.

They’d seen him before, of course – most of them many times, some of them up close.

But not like this.

Leo did not deceive himself that he wasn’t thinking of the second reason himself.

It didn’t take mind-reading skills to interpret the underlying, consuming concern: what was their leader going to do now?

What were _they_ going to do?

No one so much as whispered those questions aloud. They knew, intellectually, what the answers would be. Their President was still himself. Even more to the point, he was still their President. He would continue to do his job. And they would continue to serve him.

No matter what.

With no fanfare, the main doors started to swing open.

Every head turned. Every spine stiffened.

And the "no matter what" hit every single spectator squarely between the eyes, and hard in the stomach.

The executive party appeared upon the threshold, a group of considerable size. Several were the ubiquitous Secret Service agents, an unfortunate necessity no matter where the leader of the free world went – even in his own home. The others blurred together, both well known and not so. The White House Chief of Staff. The White House Communications Director. The Deputy National Security Advisor. The personal aide to the President. The Surgeon General, in full uniform. The First Lady of the United States.

But, as happened the vast majority of the time, every spectator could see only one man.

Josiah Bartlet had never been a physically imposing figure. Still, his broad build, his engaging smile, his brilliant mind and the sheer force of his energetic personality dominated every room he entered, without any effort or even intention on his part. Even if he had never launched into politics, no one meeting him could have doubted that he was born to command. He led with such charisma and sincerity that it was just the most natural thing to follow.

Today...

For once he did not sweep among them, striding in the van of his inevitable entourage, drawing everyone effortlessly along like an irresistible magnet. He _was_ in the van, and moving effortlessly... but only because he had been granted that courtesy.

The build looked positively shrunken. The smile was absent. The personality had been muted almost to the point of nonexistence.

The Nobel-winning mind had come under attack – from the insite.

On the back of his left hand, the taped white gauze bandage shrieked proof that he’d needed another round of medications during the flight, that the IV had been withdrawn not very long ago. That he wasn’t well at all.

He wasn’t in command today. He wasn’t even in control. From his uncharacteristically sour expression, that knowledge had to be eating away at his very soul.

Everyone here had seen the news coverage from Beijing. The press had been instructed to show the wheelchair as little as possible, but it couldn’t be hidden entirely... in particular after the official signing in front of a camera battery – never mind the completely unexpected diplomatic breakthrough right afterward. The public approval on both sides of the Pacific over that soaring accomplishment had drawn at least _some_ attention from the shocking news of the American President’s sudden and crippling MS relapse... but not much. The past summit and the future summit were political dances. This was pure human drama.

Then had come the news from _Air Force One_ of his utter collapse afterwards.

The executive party didn’t deny it; the on-board press pool could not have missed the fact that Bartlet wasn’t seen at all during that seventeen-hour return flight. Besides, the time of hiding medical problems was long past. Anyone could guess that he had managed little restorative sleep en route to the summit, or during it. No one should have been surprised that he needed a lot of downtime after such an intense physical and mental effort, and with his health already under severe strain. However, all the encouraging reports afterwards of mere dehydration and exhaustion couldn’t keep every rumor and insinuation at bay.

And now he had returned to his own country, to his own house, to his own staff – to where he would be seen not as a visiting dignitary on a brief and colorful visit, but as the Chief Executive with a job to do.

Make that a very specific, very public, very grueling job. A job without the pomp and pageantry of foreign accolades, but taking place in the more usual, less romantic working surroundings, and thus observed with a less romantic eye. Where everyday necessities were seen as just that, not as triumphs of the will. A job for which he needed the mental abilities, the physical strength, and the public support.

Did he still possess any of those?

The immediate, loyalist, knee-jerk reaction was to insist that of _course_ he did... followed by an uneasy hesitation and an honest admission of a secret doubt that – whereas he undisputedly had before – maybe, just maybe, he didn’t any longer...

He had prepared long and hard for this trip. He had planned a course of action and aimed for a lofty goal that would aid untold millions. He had pushed himself to the very limit of mortal endurance to accomplish that goal, and he had achieved that goal against all expectations. He had laid the groundwork for a new and brighter future on this earth.

And now he was paying the price. After he had managed to prevent the frailties of the flesh from derailing international needs, just when he might have been starting to feel confident that his condition wouldn’t and _couldn’t_ stop him doing what he wanted, it came roaring back at the very height of his success to exact vengeance.

He didn’t perk up at this formal, respectful, probably unexpected, certainly unwelcome gathering. He didn’t make any attempt to hide how weary – and how depressed – he felt. In fact, at the sight of the silent throng, his features slipped even further down the scale. He was tired, ill, under medication, low in spirits, and facing the almost physical impact of all those eyes and their obvious visual shock.

He saw their horror. Their pity.

Leo found, to his chagrin, that he was staring just like everyone else. Forget the photographic and video coverage; they’d never made it _real_. There had been a barrier, a film between him and the brutal truth, as though he subconsciously expected the veil to part and the illusion to vanish when the President returned.

In such peculiar ways does the human mind play tricks upon itself. Leo had thought himself prepared, had seen the TV images and listened to the phone calls... but he realized now that some small element deep inside hadn’t truly believed any of it. He had been hit full broadside by the sight of Jed Bartlet in a state of paralysis.

And not only paralysis, not only weakness that the disease refused to relinquish, not only fatigue that a long flight spent mostly asleep still couldn’t alleviate... but despair.

Surrender. One descriptive that never belonged to this man.

He had faced the initial diagnosis of his MS head-on. He had fought the pain and the fear after being shot at Rosslyn. He had instigated his own censure by Congress as being the right thing to do. He had borne the appalling responsibility, the agonized guilt of approving a terrorist’s assassination, because it had seemed the _only_ thing to do. He had handled the abduction of his daughter for the sake of his family, and the renouncing of his supreme political authority for the sake of the country. He had stood firm against the criticism of worried friends, adamant advisors and scathing public opinion who all felt that he _had_ to start a war in Gaza.

This... this non-political, internal, possibly irreversible blow to his dignity, his capability and his future... appeared to have broken him down at last.

Something else forcibly grabbed Leo’s attention: his own heart. It was pounding. Not the way it had during that first month after his attack, when every beat seemed to reverberate in his chest like a taunt, constantly reminding him that it had slammed to a stop once before and just might be thinking of an encore. Not the way it did now when he walked too far or too fast, reining him in before he could lapse back into his workaholic ways and push himself too hard. This frantic rhythm was purely emotional.

The pain might as well have been physical; it hurt that much.

Angrily, Leo gave himself a mental shake, banishing his own self-doubt. Maybe denial was the order of the day, but he unconditionally refused to believe that his best friend could be beaten by MS or anything else.

He had to help. He _would_ help.

Now if only he had the first idea how...

And for this man, not knowing what to do was anathema. He dared not rush in blindly. When he acted, it had to be the best possible course.

Leo had dealt with political crises in the highest strata of government that he could not correct. He had witnessed personal attacks upon the office and the person of the President beyond his skill to prevent. He knew what being unable to help his leader felt like.

This was different. If he failed to help here, it wouldn’t be a long-crafted bill dying in committee or an inconvenient scandal hijacking the week’s news cycle, or even a lunatic shooting at the White House. It would be a blow even more crippling to the spirit than had already been dealt to the body.

He knew this man better than anyone else present, excepting only Abbey Bartlet. The rest of the crowd saw him first as the President. Leo saw him first as _Jed._

For seven years, he had put the office ahead of the friend. He had certainly acted like a friend in private moments, but even then the office always came first. However, of late there had been a distinct shift in that delicate compass needle. Bypass surgery led to a more informal status, which in turn created a gentle relaxing of barriers. Leo’s perspective had altered a crucial fraction or two.

He saw the tired defeat. The resigned acceptance that life had changed radically and might never be the same again, might never be as strong, might never be as productive and satisfying as it used to be. The galling bitterness that others would now feel only pity – as they all were doing this very minute.

He saw the trepidation on the faces of the people who followed that chair. Clearly their efforts to find a silver lining had fallen short. Not even that major political stroke against the proliferation of nuclear weapons worked any longer.

He was convinced now that Bartlet had been having some symptomatic flare-ups prior to the trip. Yet The Man hadn’t told even his best friend, even in private. Not that Leo felt any genuine hurt over that. Friends understood when to push and when to back off. Jed had never liked to talk about weakness.

Leo knew what that felt like, too.

This flash of insight, rocketing out of the blue, almost literally blinded him.

Multiple sclerosis.

Alcoholism and drug addiction.

Myocardial infarct.

Paraplegia.

Oh, yes, Leo knew. Better than anyone else right now, bar none.

Each had seen the other in the best of times and the worst of times. They had stood shoulder to shoulder through thick and thin, for each other and with each other. Through it all, their friendship continued to evolve and grow ever stronger.

Now Leo found something totally new to contribute to this precious equation. He had survived. He had endured the constant attention, the weakness, the fatigue, the assistance. He was well on his way to full health. His value as a human being had never been questioned.

Jed would regain these things, too.

This man had not ceased being the President. He was no less now than he had been before. He neither wanted nor deserved their sympathy... only their support.

Unofficial status be damned – the former Chief of Staff had to take steps at once. And, all at once, he knew just what steps to take.

Boldly, he broke ranks and stepped into the cleared open pathway, deliberately barring it so that the new body man – big kid; what was his name again? – had to stop in his tracks and pull the chair to a halt as well.

"Mr. President."

Abbey didn’t look thrilled at this interruption, no doubt remembering many past examples of business intruding upon personal time and sick time. Millicent Griffiths’ concern was clearly that of a doctor for her patient. C.J. Cregg, Toby Ziegler and Kate Harper frowned, wondering what new crisis had erupted now.

On camera, Bartlet had appeared inherently dignified and distinguished even in this chair. Here and now, his three-piece suit and general tidiness hung like a simple costume over a depleted shell. He merely looked up, with a miserable lack of interest.

No – not misery. As a rule powerlessness only made this man angrier. The worst day in the office couldn’t smother the sparks in his eyes. He didn’t do passive; it went totally against his nature. That fiery frustration would still be tangible, bubbling away underneath, ready to unexpectedly explode upon some unfortunate unwary.

This was fatigue – but it had nothing to do with sleep or physical exertion. It was a symptom of the disease that rest could not alleviate, a weariness crushing both the body and the mind. The rage still smoldered, but he was just too exhausted to show it.

Leo gauged his tone carefully, going for enough volume to be heard by all, and enough aggravation to capture full attention. He wanted the scolding professor effect, and he hit it perfectly. "You are _never_ going to wheel yourself around on that plane again."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Abbey stiffen. No one spoke to her husband like that in her presence – or even out of her presence, since she’d find out for sure. Fortunately, she knew Leo quite well herself, and picked up on the undercurrent of humor in his voice before something blew. He knew that she’d know what he was doing.

The senior staff had been subjected to his sardonic wit often enough in their years here to guess what was in the wind. The others had never heard him address their President so brusquely before; a stifled gasp ricocheted from one end of the foyer to another at what appeared to be a totally callous, even cruel reprimand.

Bartlet must’ve been _really_ exhausted; he missed the clue entirely. Since even before leaving Washington, he had been told by numerous individuals what he could and could not do at the summit. Since his relapse, he’d been told by numerous others what he could and could not do with himself. He hardly welcomed more of the same now, from anyone. It would have only confirmed his dread that he no longer had much say in his own life.

Leo had expected more of a reaction than that. He hid his increasing unease and hurried up with the punch line. If this didn’t work... "What if you’d hit some turbulence? They’d have had to scrape you off a window."

This time the faint sound behind him was a restrained snicker.

If there was one thing that could inspire a Bartlet reaction when all else failed, it was humor. The President’s features shifted, slowly yet perceptively, from morose to rueful. Surely he discerned his best friend’s true motive now; either way, he couldn’t resist replying. Even the ache in every muscle and nerve failed to deny him.

He cleared his throat first, as though this supremely eloquent speaker hadn’t said a word for some time and his vocal chords had rusted as a result.

"Now that you mention it, I should have ordered up a gentle descent. That would’ve rolled me right down the hall to the press section without any effort on my part."

The snicker rippled again, but with a subtle difference. These witnesses saw something more important than a fresh flicker to their leader’s dangerously-drained energy. They saw a longed-for trace of his scintillating humor.

Safety issues being what they were, one might question whether even the most powerful man in the world would be allowed to interfere so frivolously with the smooth running of his private 747. Leo dodged that issue, caring only about this positive headway made. He tried to maintain the deadpan approach, despite his twitching lips. "And an unexpected climb would’ve dumped you in the baggage compartment."

That was definitely a many-voiced chuckle behind him. The members of the executive party were all smiling – in amusement and in gratitude.

Bartlet allowed only half a grin... but that had to be more than anyone else had gotten from him in ages. Leo considered himself rewarded in full. He advanced the last two steps and extended his hand.

And froze. The paralysis had begun in the President’s hands before spreading to encompass his legs as well. He had recovered the use of both arms before too long – but now? Had the collapse on the plane caused recurring nerve inhibition?

Bartlet probably guessed at all of these thoughts. Now, though, he didn’t hesitate. His right hand rose and met that proffered palm halfway in a surprisingly firm grip. Very nearly a _normal_ grip. A grip that fought its way through the fatigue in order to convey an articulate and heartfelt _Thank you._

Leo let out a quiet breath, releasing his long-set tension. Savoring this proof that the numbness hadn’t spread again, that the spirit hadn’t been quenched... that his friend was still himself. And relaxed towards a grin of his own. The time had come to remind everyone of the _positive_ ramifications. There were a few, and they shouldn’t be disregarded just because other news had stolen the top headlines.

"Congratulations, sir. On China – and on North Korea."

And just like that, the crowd’s mood broke. Whatever else might have happened, their leader had returned in triumph. Instantly, they evicted all sadness and anxiety for pride and victory. The foyer exploded into a thunderous wave of applause.

The President blinked his surprise, glanced about at his suddenly euphoric, loudly cheering employees... and then back at his best friend.

And smiled.


	2. Sitting President, The 2

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 2:** _RON BUTTERFIELD_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

A bodyguard is a very difficult occupation in more ways than one. Not just because the protectee has to be defended – if necessary, to the death. All too often, the protectee’s wishes have to be denied. All too often, the protectee’s privacy has to be violated.

The Special Agent in Charge of White House Security was no stranger to these absolutely essential elements of his work. The security requirements to the President of the United States were unrivaled in all three aspects. It had to be the most dangerous office in the Western World. As a result, The Man couldn’t just go shopping whenever he felt like it, and he might be intruded upon at any moment of the day or night. These faceless strangers, sworn to safeguard him with their own lives, simply could not chance a security breach if they made too great an allowance for modesty or sentiment.

Ron Butterfield accepted all of this, and applied it. He had refused to clear his charge for certain unsafe forays into the outside world. He had barged in on his charge in his supposedly sacrosanct sleeping quarters. He had even bodily hurled his charge into an armored car to escape flying lead. His charge had resigned himself that these things must be. That resignation made it easier for Ron’s own conviction that such uncomfortable steps must occasionally be taken.

So why, looking at Jed Bartlet now, did he feel a reluctance that he had never felt before?

When he first accepted this detail seven years ago, when he didn’t know the President personally, Ron had walked in and laid down the ground rules without hesitation, backed by policy and experience and common sense. In the years since, he had enforced those ground rules despite frustrated protests about privacy and wistful pleas for freedom and half-serious threats of firing action. As much as he grew to actively like the man under his shield, and as much as he understood the right and desire of any person to live one’s life according to one’s own wishes, it was a big part of his job to deny the leader of the free world that very thing.

He acknowledged this, locked away his own feelings of regret, and did his duty. Just like always.

Now, as never before, Ron regretted what he must do.

Jed Bartlet lay on his bed, fully clothed save for his suit blazer and shoes, propped up by pillows so that he could see his visitor with a minimum of effort. He did his best to appear nonchalant and totally relaxed, as though he held security briefings supine in his private chambers all the time.

The perspiration spotting his brow, the fatigue lining his face, and the self-disgust glittering in his eyes ruined the effect. So did his right hand, twitching fretfully in its place on his chest, the white bandage on its dorsal side for all the world to see. The unequivocal sign of the invalid, needing tubes because he couldn’t take sufficient care of himself.

Because, despite the strongest intent of will, he couldn’t force his body to obey him.

This was painful enough to behold... but for first impressions it didn’t hold a candle to Ron’s view this morning, standing on the tarmac at Andrews Air Force Base and watching the President descend from "Angel" via hydraulic lift. In a wheelchair.

Because his duty demanded full disclosure of security-related information, Ron had also been informed of the method of departure from the plane upon landing in China. He was inordinately relieved that _very_ few others knew of it, and that no photo existed. He did _not_ want to imagine the sight of the most influential individual on the planet and _his_ protectee being carried in another person’s arms like a helpless child. Only the fact that Bartlet had asked his new body man to provide that service, rather than been subjected to it against his will, made the thought even moderately bearable.

After that nod to The Man’s dignity, whatever remained of it now, Ron’s concern had nothing to do with PR. What if the aide had tripped? It was the reason the agents present had never suggested such a move themselves. Those high aircraft steps were too narrow for three abreast – the safest method for two people to transport a third – and too steep to recommend a fore-and-aft chair carry instead... much less to entrust the life and limb of the President to one man alone on such a hazardous descent.

Thank God it had worked out _safely_. Plans were already being enacted to ensure the problem never resurfaced. Future flights would eventually occur – provided Bartlet did recover at least a bit.

How many times had this man trotted eagerly up the aircraft’s steep steps or strolled blithely down, never giving it a second thought?

How many times had he stridden along corridors at a pace that would challenge the quick march of professional soldiers?

How many times had people remarked on his vibrant energy, more typical in a person fifteen years his junior?

And now...

Would that energy ever return?

Ron acutely disliked being here, especially now. First off, this was business, to be discussed in the Oval Office. Second, Bartlet needed to rest. He _deserved_ to rest. He certainly shouldn’t have to confront the least enviable facets of his new circumstances within three short hours of returning home. But neither of them had any choice. The ground rules had shifted dramatically. Ron had to face how much more difficult his job had just become... even as his protectee had to face how exponentially harder _his_ job had become.

"Mr. President, I’m sorry we have to do this so soon. Unfortunately, certain security details have to be addressed at once." The senior agent didn’t add the obvious implication: that an assailant aiming at the world’s highest-profile politician would hardly wait for him to feel better. Which meant that Ron couldn’t wait for him to feel better either. The Man’s safety had to come before a possible threat, before politics, before sleep.

"Get on with it, before I doze off on you." That usually strong, warm baritone had been leeched of both its strength and its warmth. Those blue eyes gazed off into space, as though because life-saving measures couldn’t protect him from his illness they didn’t deserve his full attention.

"Sir, I realize that your present condition could well be temporary." Another demand of Ron’s occupation was total frankness. He didn’t have the luxury of avoiding distressful topics. He also didn’t have the liberty of voicing his own deep-set prayer that said condition _would_ improve. To think that this vibrant man might never walk again... or that this brilliant mind might be the next casualty in the war against his own body...

Ron ruthlessly stayed on course. "However, we have to establish new precautions for the duration, effective immediately."

"Sure. I’m a slower target right now."

"You’re also a _smaller_ target. Forming a defensive wall around you will be a bit easier for us. But no, you just can’t move as quickly in a crisis. Running, even dodging..." Ron gave up on the search for more discreet terminology. "We’ve always been prepared to carry you, such as if you became injured –"

"But now I can’t help you at all." Bartlet sighed, still not looking at his chief bodyguard. "On the other hand, I can’t give you the slip, either."

Ron pretended not to hear the sarcasm, or the emotional pain. It was better for them both. "Your chair is a real concern."

The President glanced involuntarily to one side. The large, black, solidly-built symbol of the invalid, standing empty near the bed, seemed to stare right back at them both. It almost radiated an eerie, malevolent patience: waiting to be noticed, ready to be needed, knowing with cold certainly that its human prey could not escape its grasp.

"It will keep you seated and upright, even when you should duck. It will also make it much harder for us to tackle you and get you under cover." Of course, suddenly tipping the chair over would also result in a nasty spill for the occupant. And the chair itself would provide dubious cover at best. Still, that would be marginally preferable to being trapped in full view. "Plus, it will take longer to move you from the chair to the car."

"You’ve tossed me into the car head-first before," Bartlet recollected grimly. "Practice makes perfect."

Ron hesitated, the way he almost never did... but he had to keep his protectee involved with this conversation, and he needed to use every weapon in his arsenal to accomplish that. He mentally braced himself. "President Kennedy was wearing a corset the day he died. It held him rigidly upright in his limo seat after he was hit the first time. Without it he would have at least slumped a bit, and quite possibly slid out of the line of fire."

Silence.

Bartlet studied that chair with an even more jaundiced eye. He had probably never thought that the sole means of mobility left to him could present such a real hazard.

Encouraged by this reaction, even as he hated the method of sparking it, Ron pressed on. "Stairs are another issue. Elevators can’t be used in a fire alarm, for instance. Sir, I know that you’re aware that an agent doesn’t have to be big physically to do a good job. However, we’ll make sure that all members of your detail pass an additional strength test."

"And the number of human shadows goes up yet again. As if most of them weren’t already so much bigger than me." At least Bartlet sounded somewhat less caustic now; that had almost been a hint of his old wit.

"But there are safety features built right into the chair itself, such as Kevlar-armored backrest and side-guards."

"A bulletproof vest on wheels. You know, that Seal on the back is a nice touch to my ego, but don’t you think it’s slightly counter-productive for you? There’s not much doubt as to who gets to sit in it. Might as well paste a bull’s-eye there." Bartlet’s vision grew marginally brighter. "And that raises another question: is there a second chair around here, without a Seal, in case someone _else_ takes a turn for the worse? Nobody in their right mind would want to be mistaken for me."

Normally, jokes like this would rankle Ron’s ultra-businesslike approach. Today he welcomed them. He still couldn’t _respond_ to them, but they were a heartening sign of improved attitude.

"I can confirm that there will always be another chair on hand for your exclusive use, in case the first chair breaks down or is damaged."

"Just like the two fully-armored cars and the two fully-loaded planes that always travel with me. I suppose they did set a _bit_ of a standard." Bartlet surveyed the chair as though to see if it appreciated being compared to _Air Force One._

"Another thing, Mr. President. You mustn’t try to propel yourself again." Ron did not flinch at the abrupt, irritated glare directed his way at last. "We’re not trying to curtail either your mobility or your independence. The titanium frame is already fairly light for its durability, but the armored panels do add extra weight. And no wheels glide easily on carpet. Not only would that require a great deal of unnecessary effort on your part, but it would make it harder for us to stay close to you."

For the first time a flash of executive authority appeared. "Like it or not, there are going to be a few moments when you guys _aren’t_ close. What about a motorized chair? Bulletproof _and_ dignified."

"No." That quiet word had no flexibility to it. "Between the additional metal and the battery, such a chair is far too heavy. We wouldn’t be able to lift you in it even if we had to. Plus, those chairs are very hard to propel manually; we couldn’t evacuate you in a rush, or even turn you about. Sorry, sir, but that is not an option."

The Man’s hackles rose, all set to argue. He might have spent most of the last four days being told what not to do, but that didn’t mean he accepted new or old stipulations any more readily for the practice. "Then you’d better track down a base-trim model as well. One that I can push by myself. I _will not_ be chauffeured around the Residence or in the Oval Office."

The senior agent opened his mouth.

"This is not negotiable, Ron. I’m talking about executive clearance here as well as my own privacy. And my recovery, now that I think of it. Abbey’s already been on my case about how I have to exercise all I can."

Pause. Those blue eyes did not waver.

Security... recuperation... safety... improved outlook... Ron juggled variables in his head, and at length reached a compromise that regulations would accept.

"Very well. I’ll clear you for a smaller, lighter, unarmored chair – for use in the Residence and the West Wing only. But the reinforced chair will be necessary if you attend any inside event where outsiders are permitted access, anywhere in the White House complex... and before you step outside, for _any_ reason."

The dancing humor in Bartlet’s vision came as a surprise. "Oh, I am really looking forward to stepping outside."

It actually took a moment for Ron to realize his gaffe. He blessed his training and his predisposition to maintaining a game face at all times, even as his heart winced. "I apologize, sir. That wasn’t intended."

"Oh? And here I thought there might be hope for you yet." That was definitely a grin. Ron considered his embarrassment a fair trade.

"The next matter is a security practice session."

Bartlet raised an eyebrow. "You want to start throwing me around the gym already?"

"Within a few days at most. This is new; we can’t wait for _anyone’s_ convenience. We need to drill on the revised methods that will be required for your detail, and you need to know what to expect as well."

"What a perfect welcome-home present: being roughed up by my own people."

"You should wear your heaviest track suit for padding, and boots that give you very good ankle support. We don’t want to risk a sprain."

"Oh, why not? I won’t feel it." With no sensation below the knees and precious little below the hips, that was guaranteed, but the very lack of feeling meant that Bartlet had no control over where his feet actually went.

"I’ll check with the First Lady and your official physician to see when you’re up to it. We’ll also discuss any other kind of joint stress that you particularly have to avoid, and what precautions will be needed."

"How about a straightjacket?"

Ron’s mustache twitched this time, but he persevered. "I’m going to train Curtis Carruthers in a few moves as well. He’ll be standing even closer to you than Charlie used to –"

" _Wait_ a second." Now the President sat up a bit more, and his eyes were sharp. "You’re going to put that kid even _more_ in the line of fire?" Alarm rang in his voice. "That’s not the job he signed up for!"

"Don’t worry; this will be as much for his protection as for yours." Ron’s guarded, personal esteem for his protectee went up yet another notch at such an immediate and selfless reaction about a young man he scarcely knew.

Bartlet didn’t look entirely convinced, but he slowly lay back again, knowing he couldn’t do much about it. The distress lingered, though. He always had worried about the people around him far more than about himself. Even his new physical disability couldn’t smother that protective instinct.

Time for yet another issue. "I have something for you, Mr. President." That snared the executive attention. Ron reached into his inside blazer pocket and produced a silver bracelet. It looked like any piece of men’s jewelry: its band was slim and rigid, its catch was a magnet, and its central design displayed a subtle gold inset.

"Hey, an anniversary gift. You shouldn’t have. Although I thought it was supposed to be lace for seven years."

This time not smiling required a substantial effort. Ron noted idly that The Man’s perchance for trivia included having all of the traditional anniversary symbols memorized, even those that he and his wife had long since passed.

"It has two very special features."

"Nothing that comes from you _doesn’t_ have some custom alteration."

"The inset is a panic button. In case you should need help while you’re alone."

Translation: in case he fell out of his chair in the Residence, or the like.

"It’s also a pulse monitor, which will notify us even if you can’t signal on your own. Before your medical condition becomes serious."

Bartlet would naturally be annoyed at this level of surveillance, but he couldn’t very well deny the logic of it. He had already fallen once in the last two days. Ron knew about that incident, too, and could guess at the sense of sheer helplessness it had created. Then imagine if he’d been alone at the time...

There was one hot flush that, on anything like a normal day, would have led to a fine eruption of temper, logic or no logic. The President always hated being looked after, regardless of the reason. But right now the energy simply wasn’t there to fuel the outrage. He sighed heavily and accepted the bracelet, holding it up for less than enthused inspection. "Well, I’ve already traded my watch for yours with the homing beacon. What’s one more accoutrement? At least they match."

"Thank you, sir." This had gone better than Ron originally expected – if only because of the exhaustion. He’d probably be hearing about a revitalized protest or two in the near future, a declaration of independence, even a qualified refusal. He’d deal with those when they came up. "The button is designed to be very hard to set off accidentally; it won’t react to a light bump, for instance."

"Yes, let’s have no unnecessary invasions, please." This man’s clumsiness was a bit of a byword.

"If you want to activate it manually, just place your palm or a couple of fingers over the inset. The heat from your skin will trip the signal within three seconds. You won’t need to apply sustained pressure." Such as if he were too weak to find the strength... or if he were losing consciousness.

"Yeah, sure, whatever." Bartlet lowered his arm in growing fatigue of both the body and the soul. "Gotta love the irony: I’m going to be hemmed in even more when it’s actually harder for me to get away." He shot his top agent a rebellious glance. "Be warned: there will be more jail breaks around here."

"The warning is noted, Mr. President." Ron rose from his chair. "I appreciate your time today."

"Wait; one more thing." Bartlet twisted sideways and propped himself up on one elbow, grunting at the effort required. He had to be in real earnest about whatever he intended to say next. Ron waited, drawing a mental line across the scale of exertion where he would provide physical assistance – whether his protectee asked for it or not.

The President managed to obtain a semblance of balance unaided. His expression adopted a greater earnestness than their interview had seen so far. "Ron... I want to apologize to you and the rest of your colleagues."

The chief of security frowned in confusion. "Sir?"

"For making your jobs a whole lot riskier." The President clenched his teeth against a strain both physical and mental. "I never planned this. I don’t plan it when some policy of mine pisses off the wrong people, either, but _this_..." He looked down at his feet, which he knew were still attached only because he could see them there.

"This, I could’ve prevented. If I’d left office sooner, this would never have happened at all." Pause. "But it _has_ happened – and your danger has increased as a result."

Ron blinked in barely suppressed astonishment. This man honestly thought he was at fault. He didn’t express the least concern for his own increased vulnerability; he thought only of any others who might suffer as a result.

The astonishment quickly segued into admiration.

Bartlet must have spotted that new gleam; his grimace eased into more of a smile. It wasn’t easy to earn approval from the Secret Service. He valued the opinion of his best agent very highly indeed.


	3. Sitting President, The 3

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 3:** _CHARLIE YOUNG_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

"What are you doing?"

The Deputy Special Assistant to the White House Chief of Staff turned in surprise at the sudden voice behind him.

"Hey, Toby," he said in greeting, then resumed his current task: setting down his double handful of shopping bags and cardboard boxes onto the marble floor of the West Wing public entrance, careful that they didn’t spill their contents.

The Communications Director surveyed the scattered packages, among which a Secret Service agent was already poking. "What’s all this?"

"Shopping." Charlie Young could do laconic as well as anyone else.

"You moving in?" Plainly curious despite himself, Toby leaned forward to get a better look.

"They need some accessories upstairs."

"And you chose not to go through Stores like everyone –?"

All at once the older man drew the only possible conclusion. Around here, "upstairs" served as shorthand, not only for the private Residence, but also for the people who lived there.

"Ah." He actually stepped back, as though afraid that he was about to see too much.

Charlie spelled out the facts anyway. He kept his tone carefully low, but those facts had been galling him for days; bitching to someone who could be trusted not to blab provided a small element of relief. "Every time I went into a Home Medical store, some guy would insist that they had to send over one of their workers first, to take measurements of the chambers and the – patient." He just could not prevent a slight catch at that last word. "So they could get things set up properly." His eyes pinched. "I damned well wasn’t giving them this address."

Toby nodded, his equivalent of an enthusiastic clap on the back. "Good man."

C.J. had made the right choice when she sent Charlie on this very discreet spending spree. A formal request for a bathroom refit from the White House to _any_ business would have broadcast the identity of the individual in need with huge neon letters. Even if the press didn’t learn about it – an unlikelihood on the best of days – the whole store would have gossiped in excruciating detail. Bad enough already that people could guess at the logistics and the modifications required without handing them specifics.

No patient should have to go through that humiliation. C.J., Toby _and_ Charlie were bound and determined to spare their leader all the unwanted attention they possibly could.

The former presidential aide accepted this praise quietly. "Our own workers will do the installation. They tell me one of them has experience with this kind of thing. And there’s a big advantage about upstairs: lots of room."

"Yeah, they won’t have to knock out any walls." Toby turned away rather abruptly, looking more than a bit uncomfortable at this further evidence of executive humanity.

Charlie redirected his attention to his small mountain of purchases. It had taken him three trips to and from his car to shuttle everything inside. Some of the boxes were too big for plastic bags, but he’d taken the precaution of taping blank paper over any surface that advertised their contents. He took his commission very seriously that the fewer people who knew _anything_ about this, the better.

The Secret Service didn’t count; they had to clear all supplies brought into the White House. And no one wanted less than a professional carpenter on the other end of the screwdriver when a person’s life might depend upon the setting of the screws.

An additional annoyance was that, due to the need to select these items anonymously, Charlie had lost a whole day in obtaining them all. This level of secrecy made the delay worthwhile, but he’d been on his mission since before _Air Force One_ had even reached Beijing. Everything should have been in place prior to the summit party’s return.

His current assignment didn’t stop at the Residence, either. C.J. wanted a list of all adaptations needed anywhere in 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, so that _nothing_ could give their leader pause. As a result, Charlie was also coordinating with Building and Maintenance, the people ultimately tasked with implementing all such compliances, and he’d have to arrange for a Health and Safety Officer to inspect the finished alterations. Fortunately, the State Rooms at least had long been fully accessible. Still, who knew what other tiny flaws might have crept in, like rug fastenings and light switch placements, during makeovers and upgrades in the decades since a wheelchair last roamed the Mansion?

At least the Air Forcehad managed to dredge up a temporary lift in time to service their returning flagship, and Charlie knew they’d already started construction on a pair of customized lifts that could be transported along on future flights for use at both ends. By contrast, _Marine One_ wasn’t quite as versatile due to the constraints of its structure, and would probably see next to no usage in the foreseeable future. Hence the long limo ride from the air base this morning rather than a brief chopper flight.

Then there was the matter of scouting every away-site on the executive schedule to make sure they wouldn’t cause a problem, either. As if each such location didn’t already have to be dissected piecemeal by the Secret Service, now Charlie had to do the same as well – _and_ make sure any sudden adaptations met the security standards, too. Imagine the embarrassment all round if the President of the United States showed up to speak at some function and couldn’t get into the building or onto the stage without help.

The only thing more uncomfortable than that was the President needing assistance within his own home. And he would, until all of this equipment got processed and fastened firmly into place. And, for some tasks, even after that.

"Mr. Young?"

He whirled. The agent formerly examining his purchases had stopped to address him.

"Something wrong?" Charlie had followed all the regulations, leaving the original packaging intact and similar steps to speed up the security clearance. Had he missed something?

"You’re wanted in the Residence."

That oblique answer could be interpreted two ways: either the bodyguard didn’t know if something was wrong, or else he didn’t want to say.

Charlie rode a wave of perfectly balanced pleasure and anxiety. Pleasure that he had been asked for specifically; anxiety at what the reason might be. He wasn’t the President’s body man anymore. And he hadn’t been present this morning when the President returned.

It took him a few seconds to sort his thoughts into order.

"You’ll take care of this stuff? The handyman said he was on his way."

The agent nodded silently.

As he moved through the towering halls of the People’s House, with all their elaborate and historical holiday decorations, Charlie processed what it meant that the Secret Service had been asked not only to locate him, but to inform him of this invitation. First off, it erased any doubt as to who had submitted the request. No one else would dare use the world’s finest protection agency as a messenger service in anything less than a crisis.

Second, it guaranteed a high level of privacy. It hadn’t even gone through Curtis.

Being the personal aide to the leader of the free world was an astounding honor and an unbelievable privilege. Charlie had developed a unique rapport with a brilliant and fascinating man who also just happened to be his duly elected national leader, and he wished he hadn’t had to leave that coveted position. But he’d been constrained to promise that his own future would take precedence over his proven loyalty. His boss knew that he had both the potential and the education to become much more... and also knew that nothing sort of an executive order would trump such unstinting devotion.

And then the new Chief of Staff provided the _second_ job of a lifetime: tackling even more responsible problems, and staying in the White House at the same time.

So Charlie still worked for the President, still chatted with him on occasion, still remained around people he knew and cared for. If he couldn’t walk directly in those executive footsteps anymore, a gigantic responsibility in itself, then working on actual policy issues wasn’t a bad substitute at all.

But anyone would feel odd when passing his or her old desk, the scene of much hard work and the symbol of one’s assigned duty, and seeing someone else sitting there.

Charlie had accepted the inevitable requirement of a new body man: someone who would have the kind of exclusive access to The Man that _he_ enjoyed for years. He had no right to complain when he’d been allowed to stay closer than he’d ever dared hope. Jealousy was pointless and self-defeating.

It was also inevitable.

Truth be told, Charlie had found that lingering taste of jealousy easier to curb since news of the arrival in China. Curtis had certainly not been hired due to his size or his strength. Given a choice, the President would naturally prefer a human shadow that didn’t loom over him, although he’d never discriminate against a qualified candidate on such a petty basis. (Besides, finding any suitable nominee shorter than him would have been a challenge in itself.) Like Charlie, Curtis had made the cut on trustworthiness and – peeking out from behind an understandable shyness – quiet amiability. However, both size and strength had paid off richly on his very first foreign trip, and would almost certainly do so again. Charlie could never have provided that level of _physical_ service, and was hugely glad that one of the inside circle could. If he’d had to hand over his cherished position after all, he had done so at exactly the right time.

The jealous gremlin was augmented by two other feelings of equal irrationality: frustration and guilt. Frustration: after years of being always on hand for his leader, of being very protective of his leader, this time Charlie was half a world away and unable to help The Man one bit. Guilt: Charlie used to accompanying his leader everywhere – and the very first time he didn’t, The Man had a serious episode.

Anytime any member of this unsolicited emotional trio reared its ugly head, Charlie smacked it down. But that didn’t stop them from occasionally cropping up all over again. He just had to keep telling himself he’d soon get over it.

The Residence covered the two upper floors of the White House, which made for quite a large area in a game of hide of seek. Charlie had lots of practice in this, though. While the black-suited agents were always present, scattered throughout the halls, they tried to be more circumspect around here, where visitors were very rare, than downstairs, where visitors were commonplace. Their ranks concentrated rather more visibly in the immediate locale of their principal protectee, leading like a trail of bread crumbs to the President’s private study.

This choice of venue didn’t go unnoticed, either. The Family sitting room was for social interaction. The study didn’t encourage casual interruption by anyone.

Charlie had knocked on many different doors on this floor, and at many different hours. He had intruded upon meals, sleep, ablutions and personal moments that should never be granted an audience. He had been the unhappy bearer of sad news, irritating news and critical news. He had never intruded without a _very_ good reason.

He had a very good reason now, in fact the best: a summons. Still, he couldn’t remember ever feeling more hesitant than now. This summons could not be official.

Neither was what he was about to see. He had to take a really tight hold of his nerve before asking permission to enter.

Within two breaths the door was opened, by a Bartlet. A Bartlet, though, whom he had somehow not expected. The Bartlet with whom he’d fallen in love.

Her skin bordered on pale, her long black hair looked somewhat less tidy than usual, and a faint blush of redness lingered around her eyes, but she managed a slight smile just the same. "Charlie."

He couldn’t smile back. "Zoey."

After the news flash of her father’s relapse, he’d worried about how she might be dealing with all this. She and her sisters had known of the MS from the start, of course, but the entire Family excelled at ignoring its possible repercussions. It had always been invisible, a condition that almost never flared up and might never cause a real problem. Or so they had all desperately hoped.

Now...

The Bartlet clan would be here for Christmas as usual – or as usual as it ever got for the official tenants of the White House. The rest of them, though, hadn’t arrived yet. Only the most geographically proximate of the First Daughters was already present... and facing this unnerving situation head-on.

Ever since her rescue from a brutal kidnapping, Charlie had been careful not to pressure Zoey in any way, even with just his silent presence. They were rebuilding their relationship, but progress had to be slow and secure. He made sure that no offer of help from him so much as hinted to her that he was pushing his own agenda. But he ached to be there for _both_ Bartlets, any way he could.

Suddenly, here and now, he was.

Whatever he could do for either, he would.

"How you doing?" he asked, and hoped that didn’t sound too casual, too rote. He really wanted to know.

She knew he knew; she didn’t offer a standard, automatic response. Her smile’s fade, her glance aside and her minuscule shrug said it all.

Then, before he could say another word, touch her arm or do anything else to show his support of her and her father, she stepped aside. "Come on in."

Charlie held his breath as he crossed the threshold.

He saw the chair before he saw any other thing in this entire room. It occupied center stage as though floodlit, demanding that everyone give it proper notice. It looked enormous – black and metallic and foreboding. The very personification of lost freedom.

It was empty.

"Over this way, Charlie."

The chair stood close beside the sofa. The sofa bore the chair’s owner.

Jed Bartlet lounged in every evidence of ease, half-reclining, one jean-clad leg up on the cushions, the other slippered foot on the floor. Not at all as though the positioning of both limbs had required both hands. Not at all as though the donning of almost every article of clothing had required another person’s help. The navy blue Notre Dame sweatshirt, one of his all-time favorite tops, shouted that everything was back to normal.

His tousled hair and haunted eyes, and the thick gauze bandage on the back of his right hand, said otherwise.

Charlie resisted the intense urge to check that chair again, to see if it hadn’t vanished like a bad dream. Excepting said chair, this scene resembled perfectly any number of other occasions when he’d had to run errands to the Residence outside of business hours. His leader gave no sign that he felt the least bit different tonight... that he’d just returned from traveling halfway around the world... that he’d brokered one critical international summit and mapped out another...

That he was physically unable to stand.

The Man couldn’t have missed this reaction, both to the chair and to him. Melancholy brushed his strong features. "Hell of a conversation-starter, isn’t it?"

Charlie scrounged for words. For apologies. "Sir..."

"Okay, maybe not a _starter_." Bartlet was making a valiant effort to keep this light – or at least keep it from getting too morbid. "Have a seat."

Before he could obey, the young man sensed motion behind him and turned. Zoey gave him one long look, her features bravely composed, yet visibly grateful that he was here. Then she walked silently past and exited the study into the adjoining room... honoring this requested private time.

She also delivered, in that long look, a message of clear concern: that her father was not to be left alone.

He read it loud and clear.

His President obviously did as well; the resigned sigh carried across the room.

Charlie made a supreme effort to act normally as he moved to the nearest armchair. "It’s good to see you, sir." And it was.

"Thanks. I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to get back from a trip." Bartlet looked down. "Or so uneasy about getting home."

That was an admission that he probably hadn’t made to anyone else. But then, these two had developed a very relaxed air around each other that might surprise a lot of people. There was none of the master-servant profile here. The former aide had become a buddy to joke with, a confidant to bounce ideas off of, a source of trusted discretion and quiet companionship... In short, a friend.

Relaxed history or not, Charlie had no idea what to say next. He knew about the surprise welcome in the foyer. He couldn’t imagine how hard it must have been – for everyone.

"I hear you’ve been doing some shopping for me."

Well, that took care of agonizing over the next conversational thread. "Yes, sir. Got it all here just now. They should have everything in place by tomorrow morning latest."

"I really appreciate you handling that."

"Glad to do it, Mr. President. Anything else, just ask."

For a moment, Charlie had segued right back into his old role, when he took orders from no one else. That wasn’t the case any longer. Still, he had no intention of retracting his vow.

Bartlet might have been pondering much the same thing. "I just think I will." Something sparkled in his vision. Could it be... mischief? "Now I don’t want to get you in trouble with your new boss – but do you think you’re up to some subterfuge?"

Definitely mischief. Charlie rejoiced to see it. Refusing never entered his mind. Going behind the Chief of Staff’s back held no terrors. Whatever could resurrect the executive humor would be worth any punishment. "Name it, sir."

Gravity returned, damping that azure twinkle. "Look, I’m not trying to keep C.J. in the dark or anything. This is something just for me. And Curtis doesn’t have your knowledge."

The former body man couldn’t stop his smile from growing. Change of jobs notwithstanding, he really hadn’t been replaced. Sure, the President had said the very same thing prior to the China flight... but any additional reinforcement was nothing less than manna.

Still, he figured it might be diplomatic of him to compliment the good job Curtis did on that flight – but then he remembered the circumstances, and decided that a reminder would not be charitable. Although Bartlet would know he didn’t mean any offense, Charlie wouldn’t add to his hurt for any money.

On the other hand, it said something highly significant about this man in that he had initiated that particular maneuver himself: it had demonstrated a wonderful lack of vanity. A lot of people way lower in social status would have waited for a more dignified option, no matter how long it took. The President of the United States had thought only of the summit ahead of him, the people relying on him and the job he had to do. In his opinion, even his impressive image couldn’t measure up to the fundamental need for cooperation and peace.

Now he shifted, probably in both physical and emotional discomfort. His one-time personal aide could read the signs. And yet, he hadn’t made a move that reinforced his paralysis. Charlie could almost believe that in one more moment he’d stand and suggest they gather up the boys for a basketball game.

"Charlie... do you know of any other employee, anywhere in the White House..." a curious pause, as though the words themselves came hard "... who also uses a wheelchair?"

The young man went very still. All the way up his spine, nerves tightened. He had a sudden flash of comprehension that sank into his stomach like a rock.

Bartlet couldn’t have missed this reaction, either, but he ignored it and forced some enthusiasm into his voice. "I’m hoping I’m not the only mobility-challenged person on the entire payroll. If so, then this government building is not being very accessible on more levels than one. What kind of message does that send to the nation?"

"Uh..." Charlie swallowed, scrambling for a foothold. "That this place can’t afford to hire people based on their demographics alone?"

All right, that might have been a bit _too_ frank. Being caught off-guard was no excuse.

The President actually smiled. "Good answer. Well, then, I might be able to take exclusive credit for balancing the scales!"

Charlie almost laughed. "Go for it, sir."

Come to think of it, Bartlet probably figured that this would also be a way of working out just how much of the White House was already accessible to him. Charlie could make use of that same information at the same time.

By degrees, during the next few moments of silence, the amusement muted. "Now if there are others in a similar predicament – I’d like their names."

So... this _was_ what he’d had in mind all along. The rock-in-the-stomach syndrome never missed.

The Man went on evenly, as though discussing the weather. He must have thought long and hard about it and convinced himself of its virtue. "And then I want to invite one or two of them to a private sit-down."

Charlie didn’t need any more details. Such individuals could provide the newly-disabled President with valuable information about what life in the chair was like. Away from the clinical descriptions of doctors and other specialists. Away from the lectures.

"That is, if any of them are _willing_ to speak with me."

The President could be forgiven for having a bit of an ego; his job elevated him to the pinnacle of Western society whether he liked it or not, and reinforced his status every time he turned around. However, he could take a firm hold on that ego when needed. There was no iron guarantee that any of his staffers would want to discuss their situation at all, even with him. Perhaps especially with him. The office did tend to get in the way at times.

Then again, at times the office could also be a huge incentive.

"I understand, sir."

Charlie could see both sides of the coin with stunning clarity. It must’ve taken Bartlet a huge effort to ask that, to even contemplate talking about something so intrinsically private with his own workers, whom he did not know at all, and whom he would most likely never have met otherwise. And it would be unnerving to the extreme for those employees, to have such a personal meeting with their national leader and to talk about their own private issues with him... to be granted this privileged bond solely because of their own disabilities.

On the other hand, all parties would only benefit.

From The Man’s soft expression now, he had no doubt that understanding was complete. From his gentle tone, that provided an immense reassurance.

"I’ve missed you, son."

One saving grace of his color was that Charlie couldn’t blush. But he expected that his eyes gave him away just the same. He had to blink a few times.


	4. Sitting President, The 4

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 4:** _MILLICENT GRIFFITHS_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

The China trip was over. The disagreements had been smoothed out, the deals had been made, the hours upon hours of preparations before and the endless work during had all been amply rewarded. The diplomatic party had accomplished its mission and returned home to justifiable accolades.

The President could now get back to his regular routine of running the nation.

Not.

The West Sitting Hall shone softly in the morning, indirect sunlight glowing through its magnificent arched window and showing off its quietly elegant furniture. It looked like the perfect showcase of a family’s comfort zone.

Not true here, either. Not today.

Time for the first full-length executive medical briefing.

Any dialogue of a similar nature during the trip out had focused on the short term; how to get through the summit was the only goal they’d had time for. The flight back had been reserved for rest. Now they could sit down and plan for a longer future.

There was no longer any hurry. A day off did the patient more good than a glut of unwelcome information. More important, he needed to adjust _mentally_ before he would be open to any discussion.

The two physicians stood before their President and prepared to dissect every aspect of this new phase to his life in all its starkness.

Jed Bartlet directed a curt nod to each. "Millie." Pause. "General."

The officer officially assigned to POTUS medical detail stood at full attention. He was almost seven feet tall and beanpole-thin, and the decorations on his blue Air Force uniform flashed in the sunlight. "Mr. President."

Millicent had foregone her own uniform – the pseudo-uniform granted all holders of her office, even those like her who held no military rank – hoping that this way she looked less threatening. Even here, even now, the General could not escape the rules of protocol. She, however, was present not as a doctor but as a friend. "Jed."

Being here on a Saturday further added to the lack of a warm welcome. But the Chief Executive always had to be prepared to put in weekends, even when he didn’t feel like it. Many things just couldn’t wait for business days or well days. This was only one.

The First Couple sat on the couch, side by side, close enough to touch but not actually touching at the moment. They wore casual attire, clearly treating this as a day off despite the business that had to be confronted. Except for the guarded closeness of both faces, they could have been entertaining their own relatives. However, both were normally very animated people. This lack of same sent up warning flags.

Normally the Surgeon General wouldn’t be present for such a private session, but Abbey Bartlet had requested it. Millie had been the only other person present during the flight out when the relapse really hit. Her viewpoint was important.

With a doctor for a wife as well, the President probably felt outnumbered three to one right now. The again, said wife wasn’t here in a medical capacity herself. And so, of the three MDs, one was an old family confidant, and one a spouse.

None of them expected this fact to console him much, but they wanted to make every effort towards that objective.

"Grab a chair, folks," the First Lady invited genially. "Make yourselves at home." She at least intended to keep a positive outlook.

As she moved to comply, Millie spotted Jed’s quick, involuntary glance aside, cued by his wife’s unconscious choice of words. Towards the large black chair shoved into a corner, reserved exclusively for him. It waited, impossible to ignore.

He slouched in the sofa’s deep recesses, his torso well supported by its thick cushions and its high armrest, legs extended as though without a second thought. But she read into the twitching eyebrow, the defensively folded arms. The way he distractedly fingered the gauze bandage on his right hand. The way he sometimes looked down at his lower limbs as though surprised that they weren’t obeying his instinctive desire to move them.

She’d been there, on the plane. She’d flown solely at his invitation... and it regrettably hadn’t taken long to determine the reason behind that surprise request. He’d been secretly worried, and downright calculating. He’d balanced his fears and his desire for discretion against the demands of the trip and the requirements of his office. He’d brought her along as his first line of defense against something he’d hoped and prayed wouldn’t happen.

And it had. She’d watched this supremely self-possessed man, an old family friend and a world leader, sink from the loss of one arm to the loss of both, and then to the loss of both legs. She’d seen him unable to eat, unable to stand... unable to move.

And she’d watched him rebound, one arm at a time. Would she witness the rest of his recovery as well?

Would _he?_

She made a mental note to watch him over the next several days for signs of depression. Anyone slammed by such a life-altering physical impairment could be expected to sink into despair now and then. Even a person with the high intelligence, positive outlook and spiritual grounding of Jed Bartlet. Even a person with the ingrained sense of duty of the President of the United States.

On the plus side, he’d never been one for quiet brooding. He tended far more towards the passive-aggressive type of venting. In fact, where frustration or anger ran deep, he could be as irritating as a six-year-old brat. Considering some of the crises he’d gone through during his tenure here, both political and personal, if he’d ever been predisposed towards _clinical_ depression it surely would have turned up before this.

They had one additional advantage: with a patient this closely monitored, his moods would not go undetected.

She felt obliged to break the tangible strain, to at least start on a conversational note. "How are you feeling today?" She tried hard not to sound like a doctor, to sound as though she were fishing for information. A person can take that standard question as seriously or as frivolously as his or her mood decreed.

The attempt didn’t just fall flat; it served to catapult the President past all formalities and niceties.

"Brigadier-General Souris. I’ve been meaning to ask you this for ages."

The General barely flinched. Abbey _did_ flinch. Millie just sat and waited it out. From Jed’s tone, what came out next could be of national importance or no consequence at all. He was that predictable and that _un_ predictable at the same time.

"Yes, sir?"

"Your last name could be translated as ‘Mouse,’ is that right?"

Souris allowed a small grin. "Correct, sir."

The First Lady nudged her husband lightly in the ribs. "And here I’ve believed you’d never learn French."

He winced ever so slightly, as though any attempt by anyone to joke with him raised fresh fears of condescension. The Bartlets had always been a very tactile couple, but now the slight yet preserved space between them made sense. He wanted no coddling, no fussing, no unnecessary attention. Not even from her.

Fortunately, his humor couldn’t be long suppressed by anything. "Well, for any soldier, sailor _or_ flyboy, that’s quite the oxymoron."

This flyboy didn’t know him exceptionally well, other than as a patient, but that line had been worded carefully enough to include a subtle compliment. "I hope so, sir."

"How did you get that tall? Especially if your family is from France."

Abbey looked a bit uneasy. Millie felt the same. Jed’s wit sounded forced, a defense mechanism working overtime. He had to be a bit freaked by Souris’ gaunt height and cadaverous visage. Somehow it seemed inevitable that he’d end up with a towering doctor, adding insult to injury.

One doesn’t become either a flag officer or a senior physician without a lot of practice in psychology. The General persevered quite well. "I ate all my vegetables, Mr. President." Was that a playful dig at his Commander-in-Chief’s noted disdain for such healthy foods in favor of red meat and sweets? "And a few of my ancestors were quite short, hence the name – but I grew out of that."

The First Couple grinned in unison. Millie reined back her own grin, but she did breathe easier. The ice had been broken, and Souris had made his mark in the executive estimate.

"Ambition. Good to see. Now let’s turn that virtue to the matter at hand." Jed shrugged off his earlier reserve and attacked head-on. "If you want to _keep_ your rank, you won’t argue over my request for a lightweight chair." He was joking – partly.

Abbey leaned a bit closer to him. "It’s not very honorable to threaten people when you can carry the threat out in an instant."

"There have to be _some_ perks to this job," he returned, not quite smiling. But he didn’t move away, either.

The General kept a straight face. "I’ve spoken to security, sir, and it’s been okayed. Carbon-fiber chairs can be as light as fourteen pounds and as narrow as fourteen inches. You should have little trouble rolling that kind unassisted."

"Thank God. I’ve already had a few fights with _that_ clunker." Jed hooked a dismissive thumb at the chair stalking him from across the room.

"How long will it take to get one custom-made?" Abbey asked.

Jed turned on her before Souris could offer an estimate. "I’ll make you a bet that I can get it built and delivered within two days. I tend to hold a _little_ power around here."

If she didn’t appreciate his sharper tone, she hid it well. A brief resurrection of arrogance beat the worn-out listlessness that had dominated his few waking hours of late.

"In fact, I wouldn’t refuse an off-the-floor model, just to have something I can maneuver myself. I’ve already had to fight Ron for the freedom to use it. I’m _not_ accepting a delay from my medical staff!"

Millie could understand his frustration, compounded by a demanding job on the mildest of days and the opinions of the entire country that he could never ignore. It was enough to strain anyone’s self-control.

She also considered this fair evidence that even mild depression would probably not be an issue after all – leastwise, no time soon. Jed had turned what energy he had towards dealing with his situation, not bemoaning it.

"We’re on it, Mr. President." The General kept his cool admirably. "There are, however, a few considerations about both chairs that the Secret Service has raised concerns about."

"Big surprise. I bet they want to enclose the front, too, so that there are steel panels on all sides and only my head’s sticking out like a steam box."

Now Millie did smile. His attitude was definitely improving.

"Higher armrests will help keep you in the chair until and unless you want out – or unless they need you out of it. Higher arms will also give you more support and help you stay upright without expending so much energy, especially when you’re feeling fatigued. The trade-off, though, is that it’s harder to reach past higher arms and grip the wheels yourself."

"Already found that out, thanks." And yet he’d managed, more through sheer will power than by any skill. The Surgeon General well remembered the disbelief and admiration up and down the plane afterwards. She also remembered the flush and perspiration on his face, and the terrible strain on his bad arm. It was a wonder he hadn’t wound up going in circles.

"There’s a middle ground here someplace. We’re planning slightly lower-than-normal armrests on both chairs, so that the Service can yank you out if necessary." Souris barely paused, although he had to be thinking about what sort of occasion would necessitate such rough handling of the President. Millie _was_ thinking about it, and could feel herself go pale. "The larger chair, since it’s already heavy and you won’t be propelling it anyway, will have extra padding on the arms for your resting comfort."

"The luxury model. Careful you don’t spoil me."

"A backrest with lateral supports is very common for someone who has a difficult time holding themselves up –"

"Excellent political correctness, General. You should run for office."

Millie was actually beginning to enjoy this. She’d never dared hope for such a positive reception.

"I’ll leave that in your capable hands, sir."

"Not as capable as they once were, but I’ll accept the endorsement."

The official physician was definitely getting the hang of dealing with his quirky patient. "Now as you heal, your control and your stamina will increase and the fatigue will diminish. Those lateral supports I mentioned can be removed when you no longer need them."

"As soon as possible, please." That was Abbey, kicking in her two cents. She gave her husband a look that was not coddling at all. "The more you have to work on your balance, the faster you’ll improve."

"Slave-driver," he returned, but they all heard the affection in his voice this time. "Here I was expecting some pampering, and you break out the bull whip."

She leaned right into him, taking advantage of the mood, though the seriousness didn’t leave her eyes. "You said you don’t want to be babied."

"Oh, so _now_ you start taking me on my word?"

"You’re already better now than you were in Beijing. That isn’t an encouraging sign?"

"But I didn’t even have time to milk a vacation out of it!" He sighed in mock resignation.

"The curse of the overachiever." Abbey’s smile was a little bit smug and a whole lot relieved. The barriers, understandable but distressful, were crumbling fast.

Souris headed back on topic rather regretfully; this exchange was a pleasure to observe, but they had only a certain time period set aside for their chat and they most definitely did not want to expend the limited executive endurance on jokes when business was required. "Speaking of improvement, Mr. President..." He waited until he had the attention of both Bartlets. "Your arm strength will also increase with self-propulsion, but your leg strength won’t if you’re not walking at all."

The warmth in the room started to cool a bit.

"I can stand," Jed protested. Then honesty compelled him to add, "If I lock my knees. And hold onto something."

Abbey’s lips tightened, but she didn’t refer to what had happened the last time he tried. Millie didn’t, either. He’d been damned lucky he hadn’t hit anything and that he’d tipped sideways on the way to the floor.

"Good to hear, sir. Sounds like it won’t be long before you’ll be able to stand unsupported for several minutes, and eventually hours. Keep practicing – but be very careful. A fall could undo some of your progress. I recommend a set of forearm crutches."

A very awkward silence.

"Crutches?" The President’s tone formed icicles around those two syllables. "The chair isn’t enough already?"

"Crutches, sir," the General repeated firmly. "They’re ideal to help you practice walking again."

"Guess the past sixty years weren’t practice enough, huh? Those’ll look great on camera," Jed grumbled.

"There’s that modesty I know and love," Abbey murmured, taking care not to come across as acerbic. Certainly in her view his public image came in a dismal second place to his renewed health.

"Well, on the bright side, I’ll look like JFK did when he campaigned after his back surgery. Or like a quarterback who broke his leg winning the Super Bowl."

Millie shook her head just a bit. Leave it to this man to find some political benefit. Too much of his life revolved around the public eye for him to ever ignore it. But then, it made sense to dredge up _anything_ positive just to keep from getting bitter over the whole thing.

"Not those kinds of crutches, sir," Souris corrected with notable gentleness, considering that he looked more like a stereotypical undertaker than a doctor. "Straight crutches require at least one leg that can balance safely. Forearm crutches are much better for a person who can’t really stand unaided in the first place."

Jed rolled his eyes. "Guy doesn’t mince words," he complained to no one in particular. "Just _once_ , can I get a sugar-coating doctor?"

"You’d have diabetes in no time," Abbey predicted.

"You’ve already cut back on my steaks. Don’t even _think_ about curtailing my desserts. I have to have _something_ to live for."

Millie was very grateful that she had been allowed to attend. She hadn’t yet contributed a word, but she had witnessed a drastic change in the executive mindset... and she’d been treated to a First Couple interaction that bespoke of the good old days. Not that the good old days were so long ago – but Jed had been erecting walls against everyone of late.

The President exhaled and swung back towards his military physician. "All right, I’ll give your proposal a fair hearing. How much of a security issue will _they_ be? Betcha they’ll slow me down like the chair never dreamed of. They’ll be wonderful to balance on and shake hands at the same time, too. And my detail will have to watch me in case I go down with a splat, rather than watching the crowds like they’re supposed to do."

"Valid point, sir. I don’t recommend that you take the crutches outside the Residence until you’ve become very familiar with them. In fact, it might be best if they don’t see any use outside the White House at all. And I’m saying that out of concern for your safety, not your ego."

" _Sugar,_ Doc."

"Very well. When your legs improve enough, you can graduate to the regular crutches."

Jed shrugged, unenthused. "Yay."

"And we’re preparing for regular physiotherapy sessions."

He looked even less enthused. "Your use of ‘we’ is somewhat inaccurate – unless you plan to hop up on the table with me."

"I definitely intend to get you through it. You’ll be prone to muscle cramps, and it’s imperative that you don’t allow your legs to atrophy... or blood clots to form."

His brows descended. "All of a sudden you make becoming a human pretzel sound positively enchanting."

"Ready for some _good_ news, Mr. President?"

"I don’t know. I get so little around here, I think I’ve forgotten how to handle it."

Millie was looking forward to this part. She and Souris had tracked down all the data with any positive spin to be had.

"For starters, there’s a very good chance that this episode is temporary."

Curiously, except for elevated brows Jed did not comment. Perhaps he had not dared to nurture that hope, and hearing it from such a reliable source had caught him off-guard.

"It’ll just be longer-lasting than past relapses you’ve experienced. That’s normal, though, given the severity this time around."

" _How_ long-lasting?"

Souris paused, trapped between cold prognosis and human optimism. "My estimate is somewhere around a month."

Those blue eyes glowed like the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Now, at last, he had a definite target date.

" _Estimate,_ Mr. President."

"I’ll take it."

Abbey gripped her husband’s closer arm with both hands, just as happy for him. He placed his other hand over hers and squeezed. They still faced a lot of work and suffering before that month elapsed, but both clung to this promise joyously.

"However –"

"Knew it." The azure glow faded.

"Don’t give up yet, sir, please. I was only going to say that some faint traces of symptoms might remain." The General took care not to sound patronizing. "A limp. Early fatigue. That sort of thing."

Jed’s posture deflated a few notches. "I like your definition of ‘good news’."

"Better than the alternative," Abbey reminded him, fighting her own concern.

"Point," he conceded wearily.

"We’ll arrange a few tests for tomorrow." Souris pretended to miss the sudden, very visible irritation directed his way. "They’ll help us narrow down the window. But I’m not exaggerating here. So long as there’s no permanent damage to the myelin sheathe, and with your own relapsing/remitting history, you should recover most if not all motor function."

"Break out the noisemakers." Still, Jed didn’t sound quite as sour as he had a minute ago.

"Now there _is_ a faint possibility of breathing or lung problems. Like pneumonia."

He jerked a bit, obviously hearing this for the first time.

"But I rather doubt that will be a concern here. From what I’ve heard, sir, you’ll be exercising regularly, and that’s the best prevention. Especially exercise of the upper body."

"Great. I’ll enter a race in the New Year. Or I’ll just increase the number of my speaking engagements. That counts as exercising the lungs, right?"

"Possibly, but I can name another habit that will do exactly the opposite."

In the short, pointed quiet, Jed looked unhappily towards the sitting room’s beautiful west window.

"I don’t smoke _that_ much."

Abbey lowered her voice, sympathetic yet dead-serious. "You bet your life?"

His hesitation was almost too fleeting to detect. "No." As a very occasional smoker, the odds had been in his favor – but they were no longer so forgiving, and they might never be again. The nicotine just wasn’t worth it.

Millie’s nerves contracted at the new set to the General’s jaw. She knew what was coming next.

He wasn’t looking forward to it either. "This seems as good a time as any to confess that we worked with Ron Butterfield on your pulse monitor."

Which, with Jed’s shirt sleeves rolled up, they all could see that he was not wearing. This in itself made his opinion of that technological wonder plain.

His scowl made it even plainer. So did his raised volume. "As if I’m not already watched twenty-four hours a day, now I have to be on an electronic leash as well! Are you willing to consider my feelings in _any_ of this?"

" _Down_ , boy." Abbey used a touch of authority for the first time here. "That leash will _increase_ your freedom. Or would you rather have us hovering in the background all the time?"

His vision slid sideways, appropriately reprimanded.

"You see? We really do take your feelings into account."

Jed subsided with at least some grace. "Not often enough; I don’t think I’ve won an argument yet today." His rueful grin peeked out. "It should be against the law to sock your President with so much logic at one time."

Millie gladly released the breath she’d been holding. The fear of him falling, of him blacking out, of him lying unnoticed for any length of time, haunted them all. This way he could be left alone safely and enjoy a fair amount of privacy – if he cooperated. Which he now seemed more inclined to do.

"There remains the question of what the future holds, Mr. President." The General locked his voice right down into emotionless factuality. "How often you might relapse again, and for how long, is all up in the air. Still," he added quickly before depression could latch on even more, "you’ll almost certainly go into remission again. Also, the number of relapses tends to decrease with age – but will take longer to recover from. And they can create a potential strain on your general health if the recovery drags out."

"Something else to look forward to."

"Here’s something to _definitely_ look forward to." Souris projected more enthusiasm now than ever before. "You went eight years without any major symptoms, and five years without any symptoms at all." He paused for effect, not that all of them weren’t already listening very closely. "I’m not a gambling man, Mr. President, but I would wager here. This course argues for mild MS throughout the rest of your life."

Slowly, Jed sank back a bit deeper into the couch, which also moved him nearer to his wife. No words were needed. The relief radiated in waves.

Millie caught Abbey’s eye, and knew what all three doctors were not admitting. This was still speculation, playing the odds. It came down to what actually _caused_ the symptoms: whether they were inflammatory relapses that quickly faded into remission... or systemic attacks, which were cumulative, and went with secondary progressive. Until the tests were complete and the results in, they wouldn’t know for sure.

Despite what he said earlier, Jed had never liked getting the sugared version. But to add this uncertainty now would be to kick him when he was already down. They could at least run the tests before confirming or disproving anything. Every day that he had to rest, to heal, to keep his positive outlook, even to return to work, would build him back up to his full self... leastwise, as close to it as he could still get. That outranked the need for absolute, merciless honesty at this moment.

Still, the prognosis really was encouraging. They all wanted to savor it.

Especially the patient. He visibly expanded in both size and spirit, drawing upon the virtual power source of optimism. "You know, Doc, I was planning to quiz you on constitutional complications next – but you beat me to it. In fact, you’ve just made my sales pitch to Congress a whole lot easier!"

This man didn’t, couldn’t, see himself as merely a patient; he also saw himself as the President. He didn’t have the liberty of thinking solely about his own desires, his own needs, his own prognosis. He had to consider the nation just as much, and often first. The fear hounding him every single minute since his initial symptoms showed had been two-fold, and twice as awful as a result.

He must have entered into this conference today with more than a little terror. He had been expecting to hear at any second that he was no longer fit for office.

Well, he certainly wasn’t as fit as he had been... but, for the moment, medically or politically, he had not yet been disqualified. He wasn’t so severely disabled that he couldn’t still get around.

Plus – the best part by far – all of this talk today had been about _only_ his physical capacity; not one mention about his _mental_ abilities. Even brief cerebral effects, even without any mobility questions, would have been catastrophic, almost impossible to work around, much harder to recover from... and far less tolerable in the eyes of the government or the nation.

But that wasn’t the case, either now or in the foreseeable future. His mind was not affected, and his body only partially so. He could think every bit as well as before. With a reduced workload and a variety of other adjustments, he could continue to do his job.

And if his progress followed the predicted path, as seemed likely, then he would walk again. He would eventually resume his _full_ duties. He would prove that the Presidency encompassed more than the man... and that the man extended beyond the Presidency.

"All right! Time to break some medical records." He had a new target now, one to which he could devote himself as thoroughly as he had to China: get well ASAP. Because now he knew he could do it.

"Everything in moderation, sir," the General warned. "Don’t push yourself _too_ hard. Tackling more than you can handle will only impair your recovery. Then there’s the whole stress element. Excessive anxiety about anything won’t do you any favors, either."

Jed just looked at him, sending a message so vivid they could practically hear his bantering tone. Why would anyone think he’d be under stress now? His job wasn’t like that... And even if it was, he wouldn’t give it any less than his all just because it _might_ stress him out...

Normally, he thrived on stress. If he didn’t, he’d never have lasted this long as the leader of the free world. Who knew – that tenacity might work in his favor here. He could conceivably have built up a considerable resistance over recent years. The Oval Office could prove to be a surprisingly effective training ground for personal crises like this.

Souris must’ve picked up on this complication and guessed that it couldn’t be helped. If his patient was to remain President, then stress was inevitable. He switched tracks. "You’ll still need to pace yourself, sir. There are going to be days when you just can’t fight the fatigue. Don’t try. Rest when your body tells you to. Set aside some down time each day, even when you feel good; it’ll reduce the chances of a real fatigue attack, and it’ll lessen the impact if an attack does hit. They’ll pass with time, and they’ll get better, but they will happen, and you might as well not waste your energy."

Millie could have told him that, judging from the fiery determination now burning in those blue eyes, _he_ was doing the energy-wasting. As a physician herself, she should take umbrage and alarm.

As an old friend, she took heart.

So did Abbey, who knew the signs even better.

"Don’t try to undo the good you’ve done today, Doc." Jed looked charged – more so even than during the height of the summit. "You can watch while I push the envelope. Not just for the welfare of the nation... but for the personal pleasure of proving you guys wrong."

For the supreme pleasure of becoming his full self again.

The Surgeon General silently wished him all success.


	5. Sitting President, The 5

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 5:** _C.J. CREGG_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

The job of White House Press Secretary was very much a front-line approach: in the full glare of the public, under constant attack by a hostile press, where every word had to be weighed, where the first hint of falsehood or secrecy was pounced upon, where the President’s integrity could be repaired or destroyed with one turn of phrase. The job of White House Chief of Staff was far more behind the scenes: finagling over minuscule legislative details, fine-tuning deals between wary allies and hostile adversaries, where secrecy was the order of the day, where the President’s integrity was less at stake than his efficiency.

Anyone who watched C-SPAN would agree that the Press Secretary had one of the hardest jobs in the federal government. Anyone who worked within that federal government at any senior level would agree that the Chief of Staff’s job was even harder. But only one person had held both positions in the history of the United States.

And if one more person referred to her as the most powerful woman in America, C.J. could not promise that she wouldn’t scream.

She did not want such unwelcome attention. She used to be the second most visible figure in the White House, after the President himself. She’d received a proportionate amount of hate mail, depending upon whichever group she’d ticked off by reporting the news of the day, as though she’d been solely responsible for _creating_ that news. She became the target of a deranged stalker once.

In an eyewink, she’d been yanked out of the obvious spotlight. She’d plunged into the back-room world of the administrator who ensured that everything ran smoothly by (usually) fair means or (occasionally) foul, who was rarely noticed and preferred to stay unnoticed. But the media hadn’t forgotten her. They’d known her too long. She could step down from that podium, but she couldn’t hide – not even when she needed to, in order to accomplish her new duties with any hope of success.

It was gratifying to keep the press at a greater distance than she used to be permitted, but she hadn’t forgotten those days any more than they had. She knew how they operated, and what they wanted.

And right now they wanted the President.

Over her dead body.

"C.J.?" Margaret Gallagher appeared in the doorway of her office. "Cabinet meeting."

"Right." She closed her current folder and reached for a stack of papers she’d prepared for this rather charged event: the first such meeting since the return from China, and the second since the announcement of the President’s relapse.

Welcome to a brand new week in the White House.

"Hey, boss!" She hadn’t actually seen her assistant retreat, but her assistant’s salutation was most definitely not directed at her current supervisor. Margaret reserved that merry greeting for her _former_ supervisor.

C.J. smiled without even looking up. "Leo! Get in here."

"Give me a minute to say hello," he pretended to grouse, stepping across the threshold.

"No time. You get to wander around these days; I don’t. Remind me to thank you for that." C.J. rose, arms loaded. "Cabinet meeting. Wanna come?"

"Thought you’d never ask." Leo grinned and extended an arm, expansively inviting her to precede him.

The former Chief of Staff tended to smile more now than he used to. But then, he no longer worked the grueling hours or shuffled the thousand and one details that involved running an entire branch of government – and, by projection, a country. He had ordered up lunch for the two of them on more than one occasion, as though determined to prevent his successor from driving herself into the ground the way he had done to himself. He really was adapting well: less strain, less brusqueness... but the amazing skill and the deep wisdom were still there, and he offered both willingly.

In fact, C.J. mused, Leo had a new advantage: he’d dropped right off the official scope, without losing his official clearance. He was free to roam and to counsel and to overhear. She’d have to tell him again how grateful she was that he managed to wrangle a spot at the last Cabinet meeting, the one hastily called by the Vice President, while both she and the President were overseas – called right after they broke the news of the relapse.

A sudden thought blasted through her mind: how would the President adapt to _his_ new life? He’d be _far_ less likely to consider resigning, but he’d have to blaze a subtly new trail around here as well. He couldn’t give in to his restrictions, no matter how crippling, no matter how temporary, and still remain President. On the other hand, some allowances had to be made.

C.J. knew that Bartlet had offered to let Leo keep his own job for however long he’d wanted it: take off as much time as needed, cut back, delegate... anything to keep his best friend from feeling less than cherished. Anything rather than take away from his best friend the job that had been a part of him – of them – for so long. Fortunately, Leo had seen past the love, the mutual loyalty, to the real need beyond, and admitted that he simply wasn’t up to it anymore.

This, she told herself firmly, was different. The President wasn’t up to his full job just now, either... but he soon would be. He’d recover, and from the medical report it mightn’t be all that long. It was her job, and that of the rest of the staff, to get him through the transition. To prove to him _and_ to the rest of the nation that no one was taking away _his_ job, now or ever.

C.J. nodded to Margaret as she walked past, Leo trailing close behind. "I hope this session runs smoother than the last one. Talk about sending _my_ heart rate through the roof." She exited the outer office, turned the first corner –

– and braked dead.

Caught by surprise, Leo banged into her from behind, and had to throw out both arms to catch and steady her before she could fall forward. A single page slipped out of her grasp and drifted down... landing in the President’s lap.

Jed Bartlet grinned at both astonished faces as he demurely picked up the report and handed it back. "Guess I should beep my horn before coming around the corner, huh?"

Leo regrouped first. "Nah. Don’t you get extra points for running down senior staff?"

"Forget that; we’re an endangered species already." C.J. groped for her equilibrium. "Good morning, Mr. President." She tried hard to sound exactly like always.

He acted like he felt quite well today – far better than when they’d returned from China, for sure. Better even than when she’d briefly visited with him Sunday afternoon in the Residence. He looked sharp in his three-piece suit, the red tie bright against the navy weave... as though fully geared up for business as usual.

On a comical note, he was framed by his graceful six-foot Chief of Staff in front and his massive six-foot personal aide behind, like a pair of mismatched bookends. But nothing in his attitude betrayed any discomfort. He was getting past it.

"Bet I can guess where you’re going. Even the Situation Room doesn’t demand quite this level of urgency. The Cabinet?"

C.J.’s smile grew. Devil take the wheelchair; this man’s mind was as keen as ever. "Got it in one, sir."

"Mind if I tag along?"

She felt her mouth drop open and couldn’t stop it. From the glint in his eye, he thoroughly enjoyed astounding her.

"You know," he went on mildly, "I’m pretty sure there’s a law somewhere about denying me access to my political advisors..."

"Wouldn’t think of it." What she _would_ think of was how to deal with the guaranteed hijacking of the meeting agenda.

And with any repercussions to his health.

Leo shifted feet uneasily. "Um... Mr. President –"

"Oh, relax. I haven’t done a thing all morning, except sleep. I’m rarin’ to go."

"Never doubted – but that’s not what I meant."

"Ah." Bartlet’s animated features stilled. "You were going to be there too, right?"

"And I don’t think..."

C.J. looked from one to the other, on the exact same wavelength. They didn’t want to give anyone – even the hand-picked Secretaries of Congress – reason to believe that the President couldn’t think for himself any longer and needed his people running the show around him.

"No, Leo, you’re right. If you don’t mind, that is."

"No, sir."

"Don’t worry; C.J. will brief you."

"I know." Leo clearly agreed that it would be better for him to get the nuances second-hand than to be present in his _un_ official capacity while the President had his current Chief of Staff on hand. He’d already played that card earlier this week, listening in for _both_ of them. At least then he’d had a quasi-legitimate excuse.

He turned to go, but not before he threw a guarded glance at C.J. that spoke silent volumes of meaning.

"And she’ll take care of me, too!" Bartlet called after him with a note of exasperation.

"Only as much as you’ll let me." She didn’t want to come across as shielding him – not because she didn’t feel that way, since she did, but because he wouldn’t appreciate it.

"Damned straight. Let’s go."

He seemed in a good mood, too – again, better than she had detected yesterday. The greater likelihood was that he felt more energetic. Millicent had briefed her at length: exertion and lack of sleep were contributing factors, but there’d be days when the fatigue set in and would not be denied. As bad as the lack of motor control was, the sheer exhaustion really hampered his abilities... which predictably made him even madder. But all the will power in the world couldn’t fight something so relentlessly blanketing.

It did not appear to be a factor this morning. And as he healed, these draining spells would gradually lessen.

That healing couldn’t happen soon enough – both for him, and for his family and staff who had to watch him go through it.

The large black chair didn’t make a sound on the carpet, and somehow it looked less... ominous. When empty, it sat like another presence in the room – and not a benign one, either. But when pressed into service, it adopted a quiet dignity. Like The Man himself. It performed its humble and essential function properly. Its solid midnight finish lent it an almost formal air. The Seal it proudly displayed went that one better.

C.J. told herself to stop this anthropomorphizing. It was an inanimate object, a tool to be used. A tool she did not like, and he liked even less... yet a tool they all needed.

The Cabinet Room wasn’t that far from the Chief of Staff’s office – or from the Oval Office. Still, they seemed to encounter an extraordinary number of staffers en route. The news had circulated through the grapevine at light-speed that the President was about.

She went through one surge of concern – which immediately subsided into relief. Almost all of the people they passed had been in the foyer three mornings ago; they’d had their first shock. Now they came forward at once, greeted their President warmly, and smiled. Most didn’t offer to shake his hand unless he offered first, so as not to tire him. None could miss the chair, naturally, and some couldn’t hide the discomfort they felt for him, but one and all they were glad just to see him getting about. He wasn’t walking yet, but he wasn’t bedridden either.

He was, with only the one minor difference, himself.

He enjoyed all of this. "Should’ve warned the Cabinet in advance; then we could take the scenic tour."

"Maybe next time, sir. They’re supposed to wait for _me_ as well, but I don’t want to put that to the test..."

As she had learned in China, C.J. made a point of walking just behind his shoulder, so as not to block anyone’s view. And as he had learned, Bartlet did not persevere in his usual practice of turning to meet the eye of whomever he was addressing if that person happened to be behind him. It required too much effort to twist his body within the confines of the chair.

Once, when he waved back at his well-wishers, C.J. glimpsed a flash of metal on his right wrist. Curious, she surreptitiously peered closer. It was a simple silver bracelet with a rigid band. She’d never seen it before.

Bartlet had never been prone to jewelry; his watch and wedding ring were usually it. Natural human interest started to wonder where this piece had come from, and why he had chosen to wear it today. It had to be new, not just resurrected for no particular reason.

A gift from his wife? Abbey wasn’t one for random presents, so why would she start now? She’d hardly choose to commemorate his survival thus far with a material object like this.

But who else would dare make such a personal offering?

Unless he _had_ to wear it. And the only plausible reason for that was safety.

In that moment C.J. was willing to bet that the Surgeon General _and_ the Secret Service had a hand in this.

Her heart lightened. Come hell or high water, no matter who was around or _not_ around, The Man’s well-being was secure.

C.J. threw off this speculation, interesting and cheering though it was. She had more urgent things to concentrate on now.

When they reached their destination, she tensed up a bit. The White House staff had seen the President already. The Secretaries had not.

The doors opened upon the Cabinet Room, and its occupants were treated to two blockbuster facts at once: the newly-defined identity of their Chief Executive, and his attendance at a meeting where they had honestly not expected him.

They scrambled to their feet like a ragged chorus line, none of them having anticipated the need to rise. Why should they have? They didn’t need to give the Chief of Staff that honor.

C.J. noted absently that these politicians were a bit better at schooling their faces than most; the stares tended towards covert, and the twitches barely showed.

The silence, though, positively quivered.

Hardly anyone in this room was old enough to remember the last time a President had used such a mode of locomotion. And very few photographs existed of that President either in his chair or with his leg braces. Besides, that had been history. This was _now._

"At ease, everyone." Bartlet’s voice cut through the strain, deceptively calm. He must have prepared himself in advance for this kind of reception. "Sit down, please; I want to see faces, not a forest of suits."

The tautness to the atmosphere promptly loosened several notches. He was definitely himself. Feet and chairs shuffled as the Secretaries moved to comply... in an otherwise eerie quiet. No one said a word.

Vice President Bob Russell did not sit, choosing to remain at attention by his chair – which was right beside the Chief Executive’s chair. C.J. wondered for a caustic moment if he saw himself as the spokesman here.

Or, maybe he just wanted to help. She shouldn’t let her annoyance at his last summoning of the Cabinet without consulting Bartlet or anyone else color her opinion of him permanently.

"Good to see you, Mr. President."

"Thanks, Bob." As Curtis wheeled him closer, Bartlet regarded his official second-in-command with at least the appearance of good will. "I heard the club was getting together today and decided to crash it." He gave no sign that he even knew about the previous gathering of this august body, or that Russell had convened it without going through the channels first... but he couldn’t _not_ know.

"You’re always welcome, sir; _especially_ today." Russell reached for the handsome leather executive chair and started to move it aside, politely making room for the wheelchair to substitute at this honored spot along the conference table.

"Leave that there." Bartlet wasn’t smiling now.

"Sir?"

"I want to sit in the same kind of chair as the rest of you."

No one would think of refusing him that courtesy. Bad enough that he needed a wheelchair just to move around; using a _normal_ chair every chance he got would only help him feel less different. Less handicapped.

"Oh – of course." Russell shoved his own chair back instead, creating additional space for whatever maneuvers might be required. For sure _some_ would be.

C.J. clenched her teeth and snared Curtis with a look. He nodded back, reading the signal correctly.

The rest of the Cabinet sat silently and just observed, their uneasiness wafting forth.

Plainly Bartlet did not intend to allow anything to distract him from taking his rightful place. This was reality. Let them stare.

Curtis nudged the wheelchair near the table, close yet not too close, then engaged the wheel locks. Descending to one knee, he removed The Man’s feet from the stirrups and placed them on the floor, taking care to plant them flat and a little apart. Finished, he rose and waited. Bartlet tested his positioning as well as he could, then nodded. Gently, the muscular body man lifted the President’s sturdy build upright, holding on until his knees were locked and his hands were braced on the tabletop. At the next nod, Curtis let go and stepped back.

Bartlet stood, unsupported except for the table, leaning forward just a bit. He didn’t dare so much as shift his weight for fear of losing his tenuous balance, but at this moment he looked achingly close to normal...

He didn’t glance around, knowing that he would be met with astonished, pained and pitying eyes. Instead he watched over his shoulder at the operation continuing behind him.

Quickly, Curtis moved the metal wheelchair away. C.J. was ready with the tall leather boardroom chair, rolling it into place.

Would it give their leader enough support? Or would just sitting in it wear him out? They had no choice but to try and see. Plus, this chair swiveled and didn’t have its own brakes. One slip now and embarrassment would be the least of their worries. She carefully set her foot against one caster and her knee against the back to minimize any independent movement, as Curtis now helped Bartlet _un_ lock his knees and descend into it. Then together they eased the chair the rest of the way forward, making sure that The Man’s feet weren’t twisted or left behind.

The transfer had been tricky, yet smooth and successful. Everyone relaxed together.

Still standing behind, C.J. now had time to notice the modest, shiny brass plaques mounted on this leather chair’s dorsal side. The uppermost one simply stated "THE PRESIDENT" in small yet bold letters. Below it, a slightly smaller plaque displayed "1999-2003." Below that was a third, this one newer than the first two: "2003-2007."

She felt a surge of pride that no wheelchair, no relapse, no public horror could defeat. She expected that he did too.

He was not about to leave before his appointed date. Not if he could possibly help it. Not so long as he honestly believed he could do the job.

Catching his breath, Bartlet now surveyed the knights of his realm, gathered here at Camelot. He clasped his hands on the tabletop, which didn’t cover the small yet vivid bruise on his right. If nothing else, at least the bandage was gone.

And he launched straight into business, as though nothing could be wrong. "Okay. I thought I’d offer a Q&A session for your benefit. All questions welcome."

Russell assumed his seat to the President’s left, C.J. assumed hers to the President’s right, and Curtis discreetly withdrew, leaving the wheelchair in a corner.

The Secretaries had a lot of questions, mostly about one particular topic, but a few members were kind enough to ask about the details of the past China trip and the upcoming North Korea talks instead of personal matters. Bartlet answered them all, taking himself on his own word. He refused to hide the facts from anyone, much less his closest political allies.

Before they had even departed for Beijing, C.J. knew something wasn’t quite right. In over seven years of constant interaction she’d come to know this man very well. She cared deeply for him as her national leader, her boss, a paternal figure, and – almost independently – a friend. She was fiercely protective of him, a quality gained as Press Secretary and honed as Chief of Staff. She was sensitive to his moods. With hindsight, she now knew what he’d been hiding; at the time she felt only a vague uneasiness, a sensitivity that his best acting couldn’t quite dismiss.

She certainly didn’t blame him for concealing the numbness. It might easily have gone away. It had in the past. He didn’t want any fuss. He wanted to work.

She didn’t blame herself for being taken in, either. He was the President. He made the call. She obeyed him. She granted him his privacy.

When he couldn’t mask it any longer, when he had to present them with the unvarnished truth... She remembered the horrid, panicked, helpless sensation when she’d first confronted the whirlpool of confusion into which her father was inexorably sinking. She’d felt it again on that flight, just as strong, just as nightmarish, just as unjust.

Surprisingly, The Man had handled his relapse better than anyone else. In fact, he had astonished them with his acceptance of such a sudden and devastating condition. C.J. had figured at the time that he was simply so focused on the summit’s importance, so resolute that his people not panic on his behalf, so determined to get them _all_ through both the political debates for which they had planned so hard and the medical catastrophe for which they had _never_ planned, that he had managed to ignore the inevitable long-term details – the prospect of facing weeks, months, even years like this. Once homeward bound, he had the time to confront all of that. Once actually home, he had the _need_ to confront it.

During those very short periods on the way back when he was awake, and upon their arrival at the White House, he had lost his fire. He was too tired, too crushed to fight any longer. He acted beaten, resigned to spending perhaps the rest of his life in a chair – a life that probably didn’t include the Presidency of the United States.

But C.J. had glimpsed a fresh flicker of that fire in the Residence yesterday... and she saw a flame here today.

She had been dealing with every Cabinet member on the phone since the relapse hit the news, and most of them several times since wheels down on Friday. Every single one had wanted to speak personally with the President. What else could be expected? But she was not about to let them hound him back into a state of exhaustion. It had been a perverse game of roulette to decide who should be patched through for five minutes and who shouldn’t. Not many had been permitted to cross her drawbridge.

Russell had been one of the select few, if only because of his rank.

The questions and answers here also covered all constitutional aspects, in depth. C.J. had come prepared to discuss that herself, and had anticipated a very spirited debate. This was _way_ better. Not only did The Man possess more details than she did, but just his being here went a long way to back up his claim that he could still hold his office. True, there would be physical tasks that he couldn’t perform as easily now, and there would be days when the weakness and fatigue might sideline him for hours at a time... none of which constituted (pun very much intended) sufficient reason for him to resign. No one deserved to be summarily ousted for temporary infirmity. He would recover. He could work in the meantime. He had all the help any leader could require to get through the bad periods, including these people currently gathered. In the meantime his brilliant mind, his governing skills, his oratorical excellence and his compassionate heart were uncompromised.

As the meeting proceeded and the subjects swung towards other aspects of business, C.J. listened to their discussions with one ear, while at the same time evaluated the big picture. She felt like she was coaching an extremely complex football game. Her mental do-to list included emphasizing any legislation and paperwork that Bartlet had to deal with, and any public event that he was expected to attend... all without draining his physical resources, of course. The public had to see for themselves that he was still on the job and _doing_ the job. On the other hand, she had no intention of catering to public whim or political pressure at cost to his strength. Far better for his image to suffer than his health.

She was far less worried about the staff’s frame of mind; they’d take their President as is, very grateful that they still had him... grateful beyond words that he remained himself. They were more inherently trustful that he would bounce back to a full recovery. They would work themselves to death for his sake.

The person C.J. really worried about was The Man himself.

Even under the veil of acceptance on _Air Force One_ , and certainly in the limo ride from Andrews, she had witnessed the severe blow dealt to his self-esteem, his self-worth. Never mind that he had managed to complete the summit, hold firm before the world and then work a major diplomatic miracle. Home was where the heart of the issue awaited. More so than anyone else felt the need to wonder whether or not he could still fulfill his oath of office, he felt the need to prove that he could. He had made the decision to run for President the first time with a hidden medical problem. He had chosen to run a second time, knowing full well that he risked a crash capable of prematurely ending his term and his career. He had gambled, and the first hand was lost. He had no one to blame but himself.

But there would be other hands dealt. He could work, if he paced himself. He would heal, too, surely enough to ditch the chair for good. His bruised confidence would return as well – already was. Still, the first few days were guaranteed to be the longest and the hardest.

A prime example of this was when she discussed the fast-approaching official holiday events with him. Some had to be amended or curtailed, either because the chair just could not be accommodated or because Bartlet wouldn’t have enough stamina to go around. He insisted that he wanted to keep as many appointments as possible – for his own enjoyment as well as that of the people who wanted to see him. He also insisted that he was fine with whatever changes might be required, even about replacing him entirely with another Family member if need be... but C.J. didn’t entirely believe him there. It had to be like seeing large chunks of his life taken from him, a piece at a time, by his own supporters, and he couldn’t do a single thing about it. Who _wouldn’t_ feel depressed?

And yet here he was today, surprising her yet again. The future didn’t look anywhere near as uncertain as she had feared.

She watched her President now, more impressed than ever with his quiet fortitude. Still, she’d call a break if she spotted signs of that insidious fatigue creeping up on him. She didn’t need any signals from him any longer, and she wouldn’t accept a brush-off. He had to rest, like it or not.

That bracelet was concrete proof that she didn’t stand alone in this resolve, either. Others were just as concerned, and even more capable.

For the first time in what seemed a very long time, C.J. eased back on her defensiveness. This man did not face either his political or his physical challenges unsupported. They would help him surmount it all.


	6. Sitting President, The 6

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 6:** _BOB RUSSELL_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

No matter how many people might complain about the British, most of America’s morals and terminology are based upon English traditions. The two nations simply have too much in common for this to be avoided, or logically resented. Still, there are countless ways that language structure from one shore can be incorrectly interpreted upon the other. This ranges from the discarding of the letter "u" in certain words to how "football" has been reinvented into a completely different sport.

Another example is how the potential successor to the Presidency of the United States is referred to with alarming frequency as the "heir apparent." In actual fact, that term is erroneous. There is nothing "apparent" about a vice president of _any_ organization stepping into the top job. Even in the unpredictable event of the president’s incapacitation, resignation, or firing, many businesses do not automatically promote the number two person, whereas an apparent heir can be deprived of his or her inheritance only by abdication or death.

The correct reference is "heir presumptive" – _presuming_ that no one more worthy will come between that heir and the top spot. The standard of male primogeniture in many monarchies functions this way: if a sovereign should have only daughters, then the eldest among them remains merely the presumed heir, in case the monarch should at some future point produce a son – whose claim to the throne would be undisputable. In all forms of leadership, the death or otherwise departure of the leader leaves a hole in the chain of command that naturally must be filled at once... hence the practical step of keeping a knowledgeable heir in the wings. In some companies, said heir might be offered an acting position until a new successor can be named. By contrast, with regard to governments that hold elections only at set times rather than calling them whenever needed, the heir would step forward and receive full investiture of the former executive’s title and authority, to see the rest of the term through. Should the original executive complete his or her term safely, the vice president has no claim to the high office at all.

There were times when Bob Russell wished fervently that he could change how the Constitution of the United States laid out the line and terms of executive succession, so that he _would_ be guaranteed the promotion he dreamed of.

But then, he had to admit to himself, there were other times when he trembled at the mere thought of any such change, no matter how unlikely, and the resulting guarantee, no matter how gratifying.

He would _love_ to be President himself, to have the authority and the prestige, to move out of the shadows and really _do_ something for the nation... to enter the textbooks as an identity that would never be forgotten. Few American schoolchildren could name more than half a dozen Vice Presidents since independence.

He would _hate_ the brutal workload, the constant criticism, and the eternal threat of danger, though he figured he could handle it. And he would _really_ hate to be hurled into the position with no warning, no preparation, and no alternative.

He had originally been quite offhand about it when he allowed his name to be submitted for this job. But then, he never expected more than a passing glance in the process. Suddenly, he was on the short list and a serious contender. Not, he knew, because of his talents – but because of his mediocrity. He was the guy no one could object to, the everyman that never stood out, the advocate guaranteed to play it safe. All at once, what used to be considered a mild disadvantage in politics transformed overnight into a considerable strength.

That was when he decided he _wanted_ the post. This was a golden opportunity to prove you didn’t have to be gifted in order to serve your country... that Joe Average could rise above the mean and turn his unimpressive image to far greater things, and yet still be himself... that his friends and constituents who gave him his congressional seat weren’t deliberately picking the worst candidate.

And wonder of wonders, it worked. He almost single-handedly ended an epidemic of severe bickering straight through Congress, and shored up a critical weakness within the Party. In return it gave him a vastly larger forum for his views, and a huge ego boost.

He quickly grew to resent the constant, unfavorable comparisons made between him and the President, a factor he really should have anticipated. But then, just try to find one other person who could outshine, outwit, out-debate and out-charm Jed Bartlet. The Man was not only a wise and brilliant leader, but also a charismatic and caring individual. Even John Hoynes, a flashy and sharp-minded politician in his own right, who once had the Democratic nomination sewn up, had been outclassed.

What chance did Bingo Bob have? So many of those enviable qualities that Bartlet possessed simply were not in Russell’s nature.

More importantly, should the opportunity – or the need – arise, could he manage at all with his meager abilities?

And now... he just might be on the verge of finding out.

Despite the requirement to find a Vice President, despite the constitutional crisis that arose while there _wasn’t_ a Vice President, despite the obvious reason _for_ a Vice President... Russell had somehow managed to disassociate himself all along from the dark side of the equation. The odds were totally in his favor. There had already been a shooting in Bartlet’s first term, where former Vice President Hoynes rose to the occasion. There had been a handover of power in Bartlet’s second term, where former House Speaker Glen Walken stepped forward. How often does lightning strike twice – much less three times? Russell had told himself confidently that he had nothing to worry about. His leader and new boss was due for an easy run from now on. He himself would serve these three years, do all he could, _learn_ all he could... and then...

He was prepared now to run for the high office himself, backed by his growing experience at the federal level and grateful allies and a rich war chest and a campaign team of solid talent. He was _not_ prepared to step over the President’s body and take the torch from his nerveless – or cooling – grasp.

If Bartlet died...

Then Russell would have no choice but to accept that torch despite his deep personal misgivings, and he would be expected to do the job full justice.

According to medical research, neither the recent relapse nor the dreaded disease itself should kill. Of course, that said nothing for the fanatics and nutcases that would still jump at the chance to make _their_ mark in history. The odds were favorable, but they couldn’t rule this out.

If Bartlet was forced to resign...

Then not only would Russell have to fill his shoes, an impossible task in itself, but Bartlet would still be around to watch and pass silent judgment on his performance.

Plus, Russell would get to watch in turn as Bartlet’s health slid inexorably downhill. It was not a pleasant prospect for an observer, quite aside from the sufferer.

If Bartlet completed his term, and Russell won the election...

Then at least it would be on his merits alone, not by a twist of legislation. Plus, he knew some people who had already demonstrated impressive skill working in the White House. Best of all, the Bartlet legacy would pass him by. He’d be free to construct his own.

As he stood in reception outside the Oval Office, Russell wondered where he’d be this time next year. Was there _any_ possibility that he might occupy the desk beyond that white door?

There was another reason he didn’t want that desk now – a more selfish reason than most. He didn’t delude himself into thinking that accepting the Presidency _now_ would help him win the election _then_. He’d be far too busy trying to stumble through a horribly complex, totally unfamiliar and absolutely essential job to campaign at all. And the voters would remember only his mistakes. Proper preparation would make all the difference.

He was ahead in the polls, but polls were not votes. Even if he wasn’t promoted, he doubted he would be able to sleep at all over the next eleven months.

He fiercely commanded himself not to pace. The President had asked him to come to the Oval after their Cabinet meeting, and he had. And he would wait until summoned inside. It might take awhile, since Bartlet tired so easily now and couldn’t even change chairs unassisted... but Russell was willing to give him all the time he needed. Not that he had a choice.

Besides, Debbie Fiderer sat only a few feet away, and she kept glancing in his direction. Plainly he wasn’t hiding his disquiet as well as he –

The white door opened. Russell whirled, cursing himself for his nerves.

The President’s new body man, a relatively young fellow with a build like Mr. Universe, stepped out and nodded politely.

The President’s personal secretary provided the interpretation. "You can go in now, Mr. Vice President."

"Thanks." Russell tried not to be obvious about sidestepping the young giant who held the door for him. Bartlet was safer than ever with such a physically strong individual so near.

The door closed behind him.

"Bob."

His Chief Executive lay on the further sofa, head propped up, jacket off. His hair was disheveled, his face pale. His hands were folded across his chest, a pose that evoked formality rather than comfort. The bruise from the IV looked halfway between purple and black, and bigger than it really was. The shiny gleam of a fine silver bracelet on the same wrist offered a bright, incongruous note.

He seemed so... vulnerable. Not at all like the man who had commanded the Cabinet less than half an hour ago.

"Mr. President." Russell approached, hoping it didn’t look like he was creeping in fear.

"Don’t look so scared." So much for that hope. "I just need to lie down for a bit." The baritone was tired, but it hadn’t lost all of its spunk.

"Of course, sir. I daresay you earned it..." He clamped down on any further ramblings before he said something stupid.

"Not really. But I’m glad you were able to hang around." Bartlet waved weakly at the other sofa.

"My pleasure." Russell tried to sit where his President could see him best... and waited. He could think of only one reason for a private conversation now: one very unlikely reason. But if he was wrong, he’d look like a fool. Better to keep quiet and see.

"I need your help."

In astonishment, he discovered that he’d been right after all.

He also wondered if the audible effort to say those four words was due to fatigue or to distaste.

"Name it." Let that stand as his oath of allegiance.

Bartlet flickered a smile in acknowledgement, then released a long sigh. "I need you to put your campaign on hold for the next little while. I need you to work with C.J. I need you to help me run this country... the way I’ve never needed your help before."

A solemn silence.

"I understand, sir."

"I hope so – because I’m not entirely sure _I_ do. But I don’t have a choice. We can’t afford to be weak in the world. And I’ve made us _look_ weak." The President’s brows descended in angry frustration, then swiveled towards his public number one ally. His potential successor.

"I need you to help me make us look strong again."

Russell sat up straighter, accepting a commission he had never dared hope to receive. "I’ll do anything I possibly can. Any way to make your burden lighter –"

"I could be walking in a month."

Silence again, this time surprised.

Russell had already heard from many people who were convinced that Bartlet wasn’t fit for office anymore. He’d shot down those claims – true, more from a sense of panic than anything else. Everywhere, people were looking at _him_ harder than ever. Thinking, as he was, that his time might be about to dawn ahead of schedule.

And now... a month? The President hadn’t mentioned that precise estimate to the Cabinet, claiming that the medical staff wasn’t certain and preferred not to commit itself yet. Maybe he didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up too high, in case he failed to improve as fast as expected; their disappointment and increased concern would only add to his.

Maybe he didn’t want to get _his_ hopes up too high.

And maybe Russell didn’t have to worry about that constitutional catapult so much after all.

"That’s great!" He meant it, too. He just hoped he was believed.

"But in the meantime..." Bartlet turned his head. Those blue eyes were sharp despite the aching tiredness. "You’ll have to be careful how you do this, Bob. A month can be a long time. We’re setting a precedent today, you and I. It’s temporary, but it’s necessary, and it has the potential to be pretty dangerous. Another thing I don’t want to do is weaken this office for the next guy. _Whoever_ he is."

Should anything be read into that last comment...?

"Don’t think that this is an endorsement. I can’t play favorites within the Party. Right now you have the advantage. You’ve got the power of your own office, you’ve got your contacts, you’ve got the money. And you’ve got Will. This could be an added bonus: some real experience in the hot seat. I don’t know. It might. I can’t promise."

Before Russell could finish processing the inspiring truth to all of this, the President twisted a bit on the sofa and really glared at him.

"But I _will not_ allow this Office to be used as a campaign platform. Get me?"

Silence, this one very uncomfortable.

"One hundred per cent, sir. I wouldn’t do that anyway."

"Good." A pause for breath. "Don’t expect high accolades for your work here, either. It’s right in your job description. And it’ll carry more weight if you don’t blow your own horn."

Bartlet subsided with a groan. The Cabinet meeting had been energetic. He’d shown no signs of difficulty during, but it had taken an evident toll just the same.

"Sir..." Russell spoke hesitantly now, balanced between his desire to spare this man any further stress and his need for further direction. "If there’s any guidance you can give me...?"

"Like to." The President’s eyes drifted shut. "Doubt I’ll have the energy." It must’ve pained him to admit to that. "Trust C.J. and Leo. They’re not your enemies."

Russell never thought they were, exactly, but did not consider them in his camp either. C.J. had risen to an astonishingly difficult job in no time flat, confirming her excellence in politics that those years as Press Secretary had already demonstrated. And Leo, surely the smartest and most widely experienced operator in Washington, now had time to roam the corridors of power and guard Bartlet’s flank even more covertly than he always used to. One couldn’t ask for stauncher colleagues... or more implacable opponents.

"One piece of advice." The President’s eyes remained closed. "Stop trying to make yourself appear bigger and better by stomping over me and my staff. Party wants loyalty. _Country_ wants loyalty." He had to be really wiped; he was truncating his sentences, something he almost never did. "Don’t believe me... wait ‘til November."

Will Bailey had reported on Josh Lyman’s lecture to him along the same lines not long ago. Now Russell knew where Josh got it.

He really, really hoped Josh would accept his offer and run his campaign. That guy knew the political animal cold. The Vice President didn’t lie to himself: he needed all the help he could get. And with Josh, he would have not only a killer shot at the White House, he would also have a fantastic staffer _in_ the White House. If he made it.

He dragged his thoughts away from that angle. There was still time to mold the future. Right now only the present counted.

"Sir? If you like, I’d be happy to reassign Will full-time to your staff for the next while. He could be a real benefit to you."

"Thanks... Kid’s got serious quality."

Imagine referring to a thirty-something man as a kid. But then, compared to _this_ man, even Russell felt young and untried.

Bartlet’s words were slurring with encroaching sleep, but he held it off a bit longer. "Short-term only. You need him for... campaign."

That noble statement made Russell feel pretty small.

"Thank you, sir." He drew himself up proudly. "And I guarantee that anyone who thinks he or she can take advantage of you, the White House, the DNC or the country as a whole will be hearing from me."

He _was_ being altruistic here, but such an attitude would protect himself at the same time. A win-win scenario.

This time he received no reply. The President had unfortunately missed that display of patriotism. He was asleep – the sleep of the utterly exhausted.

The Vice President remained seated there for some time, marveling at this strange sensation of physically and personally mounting watch over his injured leader. Of being so heavily depended upon.

Of being trusted.


	7. Sitting President, The 7

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 7:** _TOBY ZIEGLER_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

The White House Communications Director was a man of few passions. When he did feel passionate about anything, positive _or_ negative, he threw his entire self into it. He rarely indulged in lukewarm feelings; anything that didn’t fall into the two extremes was simply ignored.

People who didn’t know him well might have assumed that he was morose about everything, never showing much enthusiasm except in a knock-down, drag-out fight – political or otherwise. He hid his passions, true, but that didn’t make them any less intense. In fact, the very lack of visible expression could be a distilling factor, a careful method of evaluating value in advance. Only truly worthy things merited a Ziegler outburst.

He himself feared such outbursts more than anyone else, as though they fractured the suit of armor upon which his very life depended and left him open to attack. Positive revelations could do as much damage as negative ones... so he bottled them all.

At the apex of the positive end resided his two young children and their mother. His fellow White House senior staffers, whom he worked with and relied upon and cared for. His religion, so deeply a part of himself that he couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to. His writing: the place where he truly excelled, the talent upon which he could always escape and soar.

His President.

On the other extremity of the scale were, to quantify it most simply, the people and organizations who dared menace those very things he held so dear.

"Subtle" was not part of Toby’s vocabulary. He told his President once, to his face, that the office had to be safeguarded even against the man holding it. He criticized his President for lying to the people. He accused his President of taking a huge gamble: not just a political gamble, but a constitutional gamble that could potentially destabilize the American government. He challenged his President to be absolutely sure of what he was doing.

And his President had proven him wrong. The challenge had been met. The lie had been forgiven. The gamble had paid off; the office had rested secure.

Until now, when it all threatened to come crashing down upon them.

Now, when debate no longer mattered and logic had already been applied, when some people might surrender in hopelessness and others might sneer _I told you so,_ when his President needed help like never before – not so much politically as personally – he was there. He would not be elsewhere. He would fight to the death and beyond. Because this man, who invited his brutal honestly, also merited his unswerving loyalty. Always had, always would.

Toby had spent so much time on the phone of late, he was giving serious consideration to having a handset grafted to his ear. It had been four days since the executive party returned, five days since the Chinese summit wrapped with an explosive breakthrough on North Korea, eight days since Jed Bartlet announced to the world that he had suddenly lost the use of his legs. Everyone was still trying to adapt to this newly-skewed universe.

Correction: some were trying harder than others. And some weren’t trying much at all. Either that, or else they just weren’t thinking – a situation that Toby would say applied to nine-tenths of the time anyway. The President himself was adapting very well, emotionally at least... but certain things could still touch him off, and understandably so. Even worse, they could wound him. The two biggest offenders were people getting all pitying on him, and people acting like he was helpless.

That was _not_ acceptable.

Toby learned about a lot of these occasions through C.J., who heard it all, witnessed it all, and desperately needed to vent afterwards. She knew she could always find an undemanding and sympathetic listener here; the Oscar the Grouch act never worked with her. She knew that he knew what it felt like to be unable to protect their leader on a normal day, much less now when he was at such a low point.

Toby burned for retribution right along with her. Oh, he could ring up the miscreant and state on no uncertain terms what he thought about such condescending remarks, both accidental and not so. He could be scathing about better manners and better political morals. (Now if that wasn’t a perfect contradiction in terms...) But his very best rampage couldn’t change the fact that those words had already been said, and heard, and had left their painful mark. He had to settle for extracting the price from human hide, and hoping that such an example instilled a little charity in others.

The hatred he felt towards those malefactors was matched only by his delight at busting their asses.

Membership to the Toby Hit List could not be construed as praise, in the manner of popular songs topping the radio charts. A more accurate simile would be targets of a mob contract. Winding up on _this_ list meant sudden death.

Right now the White House Press Corps occupied first place. But then, it had ranked very high even before he started briefing them himself.

"The very next person to ask an insensitive question about the President’s condition will be escorted out of this building by the Secret Service! And I reserve the right to decide what qualifies!"

Toby made no effort to imitate C.J.’s elegant charm towards the media. He was not about to invest in a complete change of personality for the convenience of those he loathed. Where she had been a consummate professional with years of polish, he was simply his blunt, gruff self and suffered no fools gladly. Granted, she could gloss over the administration’s gaffes and downplay their omissions with a poise that looked far more effortless than it actually was. He hadn’t needed to do much of that yet, and wasn’t looking forward to when he would. He’d run afoul of the most aggressive reporters once or twice already by being egged into offering a personal opinion that didn’t precisely represent the President’s official viewpoint.

Another reason to feel passionate about the press.

He stood behind the podium in the Press Room and wished that he could fire laser beams from his eyes. It would make his life _so_ much easier, and a lot more enjoyable.

"It has been agreed upon, as a matter of professional courtesy, as a matter of general concern, and as a matter of constitutional importance, that I would provide you with an update on the status of the President’s health every day." This polite act fooled no one; still, at least he wasn’t shouting at them. "According to the Surgeon General, the official physician to the President and various other medical specialists whose names I do not have at this moment but can obtain for you if you insist loudly enough, that status is fully expected to improve. This means that there will be times when the news varies from day to day. However, I remind you that we are very early yet in the President’s convalescence, when progress is the least visible. His condition today is comparable to his condition yesterday."

"But he _is_ expected to recover at least somewhat?" a voice inquired above the rest, without waiting to be formally acknowledged.

By faint clues, Toby shifted from exaggerated civility to genuine cooperation. "That’s one question I don’t mind answering every day." A good thing; in every briefing he’d held on this subject, somebody had launched the very same query without fail, as though expecting _that_ to alter regularly. The positive aspect to his response made it downright welcome by comparison. "This relapse does indeed appear to have been caused by overwork, not by an acceleration of the MS. Given time and therapy, the President has an excellent chance of walking again. The medical staff wants to wait for more definite milestones before they commit themselves to an estimate of when that happy event may take place."

Another voice rose above the subsequent Babel. "Toby, what about the constitutional implications –"

That rare tolerance from the podium dissipated at once. "And here is a question I _do_ mind answering every day," Toby almost literally growled. "Unlike medical progress reports, the Constitution of the United States does _not_ change on a daily basis – and each of us should bless whatever providence we believe in that it doesn’t. Ergo, my answer here is also unchanging. All issues and requirements pursuant to the Twenty-fifth Amendment are continuing to be met. The President remains in possession of all of his faculties and has been from the start. If at any time he were unable to discharge his duties, every single one of us would be duty-bound to propose his resignation, including the President himself! He has stated unequivocally within my hearing that he would _not_ remain in office if his advisors honestly believed he was no longer up to the task. But that time hasn’t come yet, and by all medical prognoses it never will!"

Toby paused for a moment to manage his accelerated breathing. The corps waited for him, sensing that more was to come.

"I will mention again that the President attended both a Cabinet meeting and a staff meeting yesterday. He was there for the carol sing-along in the East Room Sunday night. He’s seeing state papers. He’s meeting with representatives from all levels of government. What more do you want? He is _not_ an invalid! He _is_ recovering! Now give him time to heal!"

Annabeth Schott, the Media Relations pixie whom Toby felt (negatively) passionate about for both her eternal upbeat attitude and her infuriating tendency to be right, had warmed him not to protest too much. It was a long-proven equation that the more resistance one presented, the more attention one invited.

If she hadn’t been basically quoting Shakespeare at him, he’d have chucked her advice through the nearest window. He wanted to quash those prying questions and the people who presumed to ask them, like the parasites they all were. But, out of respect for the Bard _and_ the President, he did try not to play into the media’s hands.

The only thing that truly reined him in was the bitter fact that, if he surrendered to the full force of his impulse for diatribe, he would most likely do the President more harm than good. The White House had to work with the press. No option.

Reluctantly, he resumed the business of picking out raised hands. "Mo."

"Toby, you know that FDR –"

"Oh, will you knock it _off_ with the FDR references. We’ve been over this _how_ many times now?" By comparison to the earlier withering blast, now Toby just sounded tired. "Roosevelt had polio, and several other illnesses to boot. And he did not die _because_ he was in a wheelchair." He took a deep breath, his patience visibly strained. "Now I know that people still tend to hear only one thing – what they _want_ to hear. And they like to make disturbing parallels, especially on visual associations. But maybe this time you folks can actually do the public some good and help clear up the misconceptions, rather than foster them."

He wasn’t endearing himself to any of the reporters present, but what difference did it make? They had to come to him for news; he had to go to them to provide it. That was all.

Besides, he was right. What the reporters printed, the public believed. Therefore, the reporters were at fault. Q.E.D.

"And while we’re at it, the White House is more than a little peeved that the vast majority of storylines out there are on the President’s relapse and not the Chinese or North Korea talks. Those talks are the _reason_ for the relapse. That should tell you just how hard the President worked on those talks, which should in turn say something about how important they are. A little credit would be appreciated." Sarcasm lanced across the room.

The next bunch of hands rose slowly, as though they had to think hard to come up with something besides the medical crisis of the year.

"Karen."

"Toby, there have been two more implications in European circles about a possible Nobel Peace Prize..."

"Yeah, we heard about those. Let me tell you what the President told me. Should such a prestigious honor be offered to him, which is by no means guaranteed and which is certainly _not_ being sought, he will accept it on two conditions. First, not until the North Korea talks are over _and_ have accomplished their purpose. He does not want to receive an award for something that he promised in all good faith but then other nations or circumstances torpedoed."

Toby personally agreed with that sentiment. Anyone could propose sweeping political changes. Only a truly great mind could lay the painstaking groundwork, throw his heart and soul into the effort, earn the respect of the other parties, obtain the required promises, and then follow the plan through to fulfillment.

Even the press could see the sense of this. Some of them nodded, as though their approval mattered. Then again, their approval really did matter a lot. They would report from their viewpoint.

"Second, only if all of the other world leaders involved in those same talks are accorded the exact same honor. The President does not consider his efforts to be in any way greater than the enormous progress shown by his peers in reconciling with their long-term enemies and making concessions for the sake of their people. He also does not want those leaders to appear slighted in the eyes of their own nations’ general populous. The United States is not taking part in these negotiations with intent to impose our version of order upon others, but to help others find the version of order that works best for them."

That made for a decent little speech on behalf of both Bartlet and the nation at large. A brief yet genuinely respectful quiet agreed. Their Chief Executive already had one Nobel Prize to his name; he had never voiced the slightest interest in another. And even if he had never earned that first high award, he certainly would not fight for peace in the Middle East or the Far East or anywhere else solely in the hopes of obtaining _any_ award, no matter how splendid. He was not capable of such shallow thinking. He cared only that people stopped killing each other.

"Zack."

"About Vice President Russell taking over the lighting of the Christmas tree on the South Lawn last night –"

Toby knew what was coming, and his patience eroded further. "I can’t say I approve of your choice of words. He didn’t _take over_ ; he was simply offered the honor of flipping the switch."

"Instead of the President."

"Who was present the whole time, remember?"

"On the South Portico."

" _Yes,_ on the South Portico! With a better view, probably, that he would’ve had from the ground. Need I list the difficulties inherent to wheelchairs and grass, never mind _snow_ -covered grass?" Toby hated talking about details like that, but there was no getting away from them. Bartlet had expressly instructed him not to dither over the truth, not to cover it up or even avoid saying it. Use the real words for the real situation, treat matters casually and without cringing, and they would be better accepted by all.

"And will the Vice President be assuming more of the President’s engagements –"

"The Vice President _wasn’t_ assuming anything. He had already been invited to the tree-lighting several weeks ago – or however long it takes to plan these things and set up the complex schedules of our two highest-ranking national representatives. As it happened, his presence provided an added bonus and made things easier for everyone."

Toby had to walk a fine line here. If he stuck to official policy and backed Russell to the hilt, the press would call him a liar; they knew how and why Russell was chosen for the Vice Presidency, and they suspected rather more than the usual White House-OEOB friction inherent to most administrations – especially at a time like this. Conversely, any criticism, however valid, would weaken the Party and the executive branch both, in particular when Bartlet now _had_ to rely on Russell beyond the usual deal-wrangling and public appearances. Toby needed to defend the Vice President without praising him to the skies... and preferably without choking on his own bile at the same time.

"But what about the future, Toby? Will the Vice President be taking on more responsibilities due to the President’s reduced efficiency?"

"The Vice President _is_ doing and _will be_ doing exactly what he always _has been_ doing: working with the President to govern this country. Sure, he has more things on his plate right now. _Everyone’s_ social calendar becomes busier at this time of year. The Vice President is not taking over for the President. But if he can assume the central role in some of those purely ceremonial events, so that the President can concentrate his energy on more important political matters, then both of them are doing their jobs right." From Toby’s colder-than-usual tone, this topic was closed.

From the reporters’ unified skepticism, this topic would be reopened the first chance they got.

"Spencer."

"What is the administration’s stance on stem-cell research now?"

That was quite an abrupt change of subject, but not entirely inappropriate. Toby didn’t miss the emphasis on "now." None of them did.

"Unchanged. It’s a perfectly valid and worthwhile science, provided it doesn’t sacrifice fertilized embryos. And before you feel obliged to follow up, I’ll magically anticipate the next question and say that it’s not yet clear if stem-cell research can help MS patients. MS is different for each individual. And we’re not experimenting on _any_ patient. Matthew."

"Toby, even if stem-cell research won’t help MS patients in general, or the President in particular, the President has certainly become a visible symbol of all wheelchair-bound Americans."

"Thanks for mentioning that. It had entirely escaped our notice. Your point?"

"Well, lots of those other Americans _would_ benefit from the research."

"And I’m sure they will, as soon as the science has been proven to be sound. Nobody’s hurrying this medical technology along for _any_ reason, no matter _who_ might benefit. If they get rushed or careless, they’ll do more harm than good and risk ruining the entire concept. Not even the President can accelerate research; patient safety comes first. Wendy."

"Toby, the President is going through something that ten per cent of the population is also experiencing or will experience in the future. He holds the highest power in the country; he’s in the perfect position to make a lot of their lives easier. He could become an incredible advocate for Health Care and accessibility laws."

He _could?_ Meaning he wasn’t already?

For a long moment, the Communications Director did not respond. In fact, he stood there in the full glare of the cameras and closed his eyes, fighting for self-control. He wondered if the reporters or the viewers could actually see the blood rising to his face. God knew he could _feel_ it, like molten lava just under the surface, ready to unleash mass destruction.

Maybe they felt it, too: the underground rumble that heralds an earthquake. Some shifted uneasily in the tense quiet, realizing that the wrong question had been asked.

When he finally looked up again, when he finally found the restraint to speak, it was with deadly softness.

"Why, sure. Let’s make the President of the United States into the finest poster boy ever. Not just for improved accessibility and equality legislation, but for the model of chair he uses and the make of his customized limousine and the brand name of his winter coats. And all without him having to say a thing."

That warned everyone as to where this was headed, but there was no holding back the tirade now.

"We will ignore the minor detail that he has championed improved accessibility and equality legislation in every campaign he’s ever run, and that for seven years he’s been fighting Congress on Health Care bills and amendments that go even _further_ than improved accessibility and equality legislation." This rhythm drew stark attention to detail with each additional usage of those key phrases.

"And we will do this because Congress has not seen fit to overcome their squabbling on those Health Care bills and amendments, despite the clear and oft-repeated wishes of the President, since we all know that Congress does not feel in any way beholden by a sense of responsibility towards the citizens who voted them in."

Like any segment of government, the White House frequently blamed the other branches for getting in its way – more often than not, with reason. But there were supposed to be polite limits to the levels of vitriol thrown. If C.J. was watching this, a pretty sure thing, Toby would be hearing from her before long. His lesser experience on this stage and his famed temper could excuse only so much.

He didn’t care.

"And we will do this because the general presumption seems to be that the President, prior to last week, could not truly comprehend life for the handicapped, and because he couldn’t comprehend he also couldn’t realistically attempt to help them, and all of this _despite_ the somewhat impressive weight of his office and the track record of his compassion."

Toby’s rage was visible to everyone now. Even with his propensity for sarcasm, he rarely poked fun at his leader, and never publicly. Still, sarcasm can be a devastating tool when used properly to draw pointed attention to an issue. And Toby Ziegler was a master.

"And yet we will succeed in this new and sweeping legislation after all, because Congress will at last see the error of its ways and listen to the President, now that the President can no longer walk unaided... because the only way to move Congress forward with regard to beneficial legislation is on the basis of _PITY!_ "

As one, the Press Corps leaned back in shock at that last roar.

His voice dropped back down to a lethal rumble. "Well, I am not going to be part of anything, and I am not going to _permit_ anything, that exploits the President in any manner. As human beings, even if we are not stricken with an infirmity ourselves, we are still capable of wanting to help others so afflicted. I refer you to Webster’s definitions for ‘charity’ and ‘mercy’."

Toby gathered up his notes. "And if any of you disagree with the meanings or the application of those words – or of ‘exploitation,’ while we’re at it – then God have mercy on your souls." Pause for effect. "Because I won’t."

With that, he turned and stalked out of the Press Room. No one attempted to stay his exit.


	8. Sitting President, The 8

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 8:** _CURTIS CARRUTHERS_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

Long before the Invisible Men invented by H.G. Wells or H.F. Saint, people have dreamed of being able to walk unseen at will. Note: the key words there are "at will." The aforementioned subjects of invention, whether the consumer of an experimental potion or the victim of a nuclear reaction, whether set in Victorian times or in modern times, certainly relished their unique freedom a great deal, but found their conditions far too permanent to come without serious drawbacks. They had to avoid all crowds, public transportation and strange buildings, for fear of being bumped or struck or trapped, and people walking down the street didn’t know to grant them equal space on the sidewalk. Anything that rendered them even partially visible, no matter how briefly – the food they ate before it fully digested, rain running off their bodies, their very clothing – neutralized the one strength and skill they had. They couldn’t socialize with other folks at all, unless they assumed the considerable risk of taking those folks into their confidence. Their unique condition could induce both terror and a dangerous fascination. They had to live in silence and stealth. They were forever outcasts of humanity.

Now _controlled_ invisibility would be a marvelous convenience – and a devastating weapon. You could sneak into any theater without paying admission. You could shadow people whom you suspected were double-crossing you. You could attend secret meetings and learn amazing financial, political and military secrets. The entire field of espionage would change beyond all hope of defense. It is indeed well that the human race has no such gene, and that only in science fiction can even a select few gain such boundless maneuverability.

And yet, a certain degree of invisibility can be learned. Various providers of humble service offer an excellent example. Mail carriers, newspaper deliverers, cleaning staff and security guards all have a background niche and a set routine. Only when something is amiss do they attract attention. The people whom they work around become so accustomed to seeing them on their regular rounds and in their appointed places that after awhile their very existence no longer registers. Domestics in particular know that they can do their job best if they go unnoticed.

The United States Secret Service has adopted something of this philosophy. The individuals they protect almost never want such protection to be blatantly obvious. When it comes to the _really_ big celebrities, the public is so conditioned to seeing those silent ranks staggered around their protectees that the individual agents no longer stand out. They are perceived as faceless, peripheral, a mass organism to be forgotten or ignored – unless a crisis breaks. On the other hand, the Service also wishes to be _very_ visible to the _wrong_ kind of people: the people with nefarious intent. In those cases, bodyguards are specifically looked for as the single greatest obstacle to success, and therefore become an added deterrent.

The personal aide to the President had understood from the start that he was expected to function along similar lines: there when needed, invisible when not. Excepting the fact that he performed many personal chores and errands, which no agent could do for fear of distraction at a vital moment, he could easily be mistaken for one more Service operative hovering in the background. He had to stay in the background all the time, too, even when performing those same chores and errands. One overriding rule was not to distract anyone from The Man – or to distract The Man himself.

Considering the honor, awe and wonder of this job, and considering his persistent shyness in such exalted company, Curtis agreed fully with the concept. Considering his constant presence and his sheer size, he sometimes found it less than simple to _adhere_ to the concept. His easygoing nature and a certain lightness of stride helped immensely, and no one would ever be considered for such a position without proven responsibility.

What did the public think of the man they saw through the camera lenses? Or did they see him at all? Of course they focused ninety-nine per cent of the time on the President... but anyone growing bored or being especially observant would notice the human shadow, and just might spare the time to wonder. The knowledge that, since his boss was on international TV, _he_ had to be on international TV as well simply because he stood nearby, sometimes hit him right in the solar plexus.

On the same note, what did the public think they were seeing of The Man himself? They would never know him the way Curtis already did. They saw his duty and his determination to serve, sure. They saw his skill as an orator, and his humor. They saw his knowledge and his pride in his country. They saw him carry the history of the nation with charm and confidence.

They _didn’t_ see the depths of his compassion; that just couldn’t translate through a TV camera or a polished speech. They didn’t see his fury or his helplessness when politics and ambition contested the critical bills he was backing that could benefit so many people. They didn’t see his cautious, tortured indecision over whether or not to use force when lives and peace hung in the balance. They didn’t see the frightening power that he occasionally had to unleash despite his better judgment. They didn’t see his anguish when American soldiers died overseas, or when American citizens died right here at home. They didn’t see the monstrous weight of world responsibility that now and then made him doubt his adequacy for this office. They didn’t see the failures that often haunted him, the personal desires that sometimes scuttled his own best intentions, and the purely human weaknesses that he feared to let others see.

At other pensive moments, Curtis wondered what the viewers _thought_ they were seeing. Most of those public appearances were carefully staged to best advantage. The people never beheld the long hours of preparation, the grim security sweeps, the hot arguments over niggling details and their political repercussions, the strenuous debates over who should and who shouldn’t be invited. Many of those legislative efforts were so painstaking and so long-reaching that they didn’t receive much acknowledgement in the press. The people never witnessed the long and vociferous committees, the desperate phone calls drumming up support, the favors called in and the promises made, the close votes and upset votes and filibusters, the constant jockeying for advantage on both sides... all the myriad steps taken to maintain that tenuous balance between state and federal government levels, between House and Senate, between Democrats and Republicans, between Congress and President.

Curtis worked inside the White House, sometimes even inside the Oval Office. He saw into the hidden wings of the West Wing.

He was also new enough to the White House that his perspective still differed quite a bit from employees of many years. In fifteen days he had not yet acquired the insight on deals and spin and trends, identified the personal animosities or witnessed the long-standing prejudices. His point of view, though certainly affected by the expressed opinions of his fellow civil servants all around him, remained relatively untainted... so far.

Judging from several clues Charlie had dropped – quite possibly without full awareness – during the transition period, that innocent state would not likely last much longer. Curtis was of two minds on this. On the one hand, he did not want to become entrenched and cynical about anything, political or otherwise. It didn’t suit his temperament anyway.

On the other, when quietly observing the leader of the free world, such as right now, Curtis welcomed any attitude, any information at all that could help him do his job better.

He sat in a chair towards the rear of the Oval Office, reading reports selected to bring him up to speed on all aspects of White House life as swiftly as possible, and pretending to ignore his boss behind the desk at the other end of the room. He was the invisible presence, a silent extra, Curtis no-last-name. Always on hand, but never in the way, a source of unassuming companionship when desired yet able to vanish into the wallpaper when his attention wasn’t wanted. Even prior to the China trip, he had already begun to get a good idea of how the President wanted him to work and to interact, and had already learned to pick out some of the President’s moods and unspoken needs and silent orders. The trip itself had opened many new windows into their working relationship, building innovative levels of dependence and trust through the fires of adversity. It had been a pretty humbling experience for both. The public impressions, the vetting and screening, the detailed and vital advice Charlie had provided in advance... all of it had still not prepared Curtis for everything.

He was working for the President. In a way, he was working _with_ the President.

Chills. Would he be able to live up to such a crucial commission after all?

And chills for another reason as well. Standing so close to the most obvious human target in the world meant that the body man had very good odds of getting caught up in any threat of any kind. A bomb would kill everyone within a considerable radius. A bullet could miss by crucial inches, or there could be several bullets covering a wider range. Anything that happened to the executive vehicles or aircraft would affect all travel companions as well. A personal aide would not easily escape any of this.

Sometimes Curtis had to fight the urge to tremble.  Prior to coming to the White House he had never had an enemy. Now, purely through association, he was a target himself. If the Secret Service had the second most dangerous job in the country, right after that of their principal protectee, then the body man held third place. He was simply too proximate to miss out.

He tried very hard not to think about it. When that didn’t work, he needed only look at his boss and his leader, and the trembles merged towards resolution to be there, at all times, come what may. The Man refused to shrink from his work despite the serious risk factor. Anyone who followed him could do no less.

They were here for him – through _anything._

Officially, this was Jed Bartlet’s second day back at work. Realistically, he hadn’t put in a full day yet. The Cabinet meeting yesterday morning and a discussion with the senior staff in the afternoon had been all he could handle within that twenty-four-hour period. Today he felt up to a bit of paperwork... but no one knew how long his physical _or_ mental energy could last, including The Man himself. Executive privilege aside, his doctors and his wife did not want him left alone for long periods of time until they could accurately chart his progress. Assuming he made any, of course. He should, but it was still too early to tell for certain. Hence the almost constant company.

And the bracelet, the unique properties of which Curtis had been informed.

The President’s predictable irritation at being monitored like this was matched by his frustration at not having a full say in his own activities. Several times already, he’d voiced a desire to go someplace or do something, and had been overruled. He’d objected to the extensive (and in his mind excessive) medical tests and the restrictions of his movements and the enforcement of his rest periods. Curtis felt extremely uncomfortable wheeling his boss towards one destination when his boss wanted to go somewhere else... almost as though he were a turncoat. The chair and the weakness made it flatly impossible for Bartlet to exert his will on those lines. He couldn’t even order his own body man to follow his orders rather than those of the medical staff. The simple fact was, most powerful man in the world or not, he had no choice but to obey that medical staff himself. He was, in a very real sense, their prisoner.

And his personal aide was regrettably forced to play his turnkey.

Curtis had been shown his own desk outside the Oval Office, but thus far he’d had almost no time to use it. Debbie had informed him of how they would work closely together, and not just in the matter of executive-watching, but as of yet he hadn’t had to apply that administrative angle. At the moment his duties were far more hands-on than Charlie’s ever got, primarily due to the wheelchair thing. However, when and if Bartlet did manage to recover in the end, then he would once again walk unassisted... at which point Curtis would no doubt be introduced to the paper side of his own job. He could not honestly claim to be looking forward to _that_ angle, but would embrace it willingly for the President’s sake.

The sudden knock on the door leading into reception made both men start. They’d been equally engrossed in their individual work and their own thoughts.

Debbie appeared. "Mr. President? The Speaker of the House."

"Right. Might as well get this over with." Bartlet took off his eyeglasses. He still couldn’t write properly yet, but Curtis noted with masked relief that his right hand didn’t shake.

Whether Debbie noticed the same or not, she did toss the body man a nod before retreating. Both of them, and their boss as well, knew that while the Vice President _had_ to be allowed a private audience, almost no one else qualified at this time. Certainly not the single most vocal adversary of the White House.

"Mr. President." Jefferson Haffley marched in as though trying to show off his vitality in front of his crippled opponent. Unlike just about everyone else to date, he did not stop and stare for even one second. Because he genuinely didn’t care? Not likely. He had to see this condition as reducing the strength of the entire executive branch, a scenario that could only improve his own position.

"Mr. Speaker." Bartlet closed the file in front of him and extended his right arm across the blotter for a handshake. Except for the fact that he did not rise, a common courtesy he extended to every visitor, he looked and acted perfectly normal. "Good of you to drop by."

Haffley stopped at the desk’s leading edge and met the proffered palm. "Good to see you getting along so well." If any sarcasm resided in those words, it was buried too deep to hear. He glanced around for a moment, as though admiring this historic chamber. Or was he expecting to see steel grab-bars and other hospital equipment disfiguring the Oval itself? Only the wheelchair standing to one side provided any discordant note.

Glancing around also revealed the office’s third occupant. The Speaker frowned in annoyance. "Uh, can we have a little confidentiality here?"

"Curtis stays." The Man’s tone granted no room for debate. "He’s under orders from a higher authority than mine. Even the Chinese President had to put up with him."

That shut Haffley down. He couldn’t presume to equate to, much less surpass, a world leader... although he tried it with _this_ world leader every chance he got. That statement also served as clear proof of the body man’s trustworthiness in _international_ circles, leaving no grounds for complaint lower down the food chain.

"And speaking of whom..." Bartlet threw a glance towards the back of the room. His personal aide caught the signal at once and came over. "Let’s sit in greater comfort."

Curtis hid an expression of surprise. He hadn’t expected his boss to want to display any infirmity in front of the man he trusted the least and before whom he would naturally want to look most in control. Besides, the tall leather chair offered more back support than any other piece of furniture here... and the desk offered a solid barrier, protecting both his dignity and his authority. Still, orders were orders.

That same leather chair had recently been fitted with locking casters for safety’s sake. Curtis made sure they were still secure; they had to remain locked the whole time Bartlet sat there, a stipulation which would continue until he regained enough leg strength to rise and sit unaided. Satisfied, Curtis picked up the wheelchair – its brakes were already applied – and brought it closer. With his strength, he found it easier and faster to lift the chair right off the ground rather than fiddle with the locking levers. This also reduced the chance of the brakes not being applied correctly and the chair moving without permission.

The President was ready. Practice made a difference; he and his aid were getting pretty good at the seat exchange. He was also feeling less self-conscious about it – either that, or else he wanted to prove his ability to function despite _all_ of his handicaps. Besides, he couldn’t hide behind that desk, either figuratively or literally.

"So what’s on your mind in particular today, Jeff?" He slung one arm across his aide’s brawny shoulders, as casual as a pair of best buddies. Carefully gauging power output as always, Curtis had him on his feet and braced in seconds.

"Uh..." The Speaker found it moderately distracting to watch this process. Perhaps that had been part of Bartlet’s plan all along: shift the discomfort. "You and I were – uh, hoping to come to some kind of compromise on the latest proposed taxation amendments."

Swiftly yet respectfully, Curtis picked up the leather chair and set it well out of the way, substituting the wheelchair in the same manner. This step took barely two breaths. He needed only two breaths more to get the President settled safely.

"Right." Bartlet disengaged the brakes himself and pushed the wheelchair back a few extra inches. "I was looking at that yesterday." His precarious balance, even sitting, did not yet permit him to bend forward at the waist and lift his feet into the stirrups unaided, so he sat back and watched Curtis perform that service, apparently not the least bothered by the sharp scrutiny across his own desk. "Think I left the report in my study; let me run up and get it."

"‘Run’?"

The room seemed to go still on its own accord.

Even Haffley’s pompousness wouldn’t have done that intentionally. Still, natural reaction or not to what could be seen as an automatic word choice – or a joke – it smarted. The President raised his head wearily.

"What would you prefer? ‘I’ll _roll_ ’ instead? ‘Cause that would be just stupid." His voice cooled right down, abandoning all friendly pretences. "I am _not_ going to reword every colloquialism that has been a part of my vocabulary all my life over a condition that has good odds of rectifying itself within the month."

The Speaker didn’t apologize, but he did look chastened. He also looked surprised at the positive prognosis, a detail not being published just yet.

Curtis wished Leo were here. One of Bartlet’s current coping mechanisms was learning a whole new string of wisecracks, such as how his height had been even further reduced around others and how he disliked people rising for him when he couldn’t return the favor... and Leo was his favorite straight man. The former Chief of Staff had his own gift for making a joke out of a joke, or a gaffe, thus depriving the line of its sting.

Then there was the minor detail about the President of the United States hardly ever fetching any of his own things.

Ah – he had done that deliberately from the start, as a test. And Haffley failed.

He also wanted to appear as self-sufficient as possible. Now he slowly, carefully wheeled himself out behind his desk.

The new chair had arrived earlier this morning, to the President’s delight. Yes, delight – even though it reinforced the painful fact that he still could not walk. It meant increased freedom, and right now he welcomed every iota he could get. It was small and light and very easy to maneuver, and looked positively stylish by comparison – like comparing a Brinks truck to a Corvette. The front wheels turned very smoothly and rode over just about anything; the rear wheels were angled slightly outward from top to bottom, increasing the overall stability. Curtis still walked behind, supplying propulsion whenever needed, but Bartlet insisted on pushing himself as much as he could. It might not be all that long before he’d be scooting swiftly down the halls under his own steam, leaving his aide in his dust.

At the moment he encountered no particular trouble, even though it’s much easier to roll on a bare floor. Fortunately the Oval Office carpet had a thin pile, designed for very high traffic. Also, his right arm had returned to near-normal, and could do its fair share of the work.

"Fine; I’ll send someone else to retrieve it. Why don’t you have a seat."

Curtis took the hint and was already moving towards the door to reception to dispatch one of the ever-present White House interns on the mission. At the threshold he glanced back, in case there were any additional instructions – just in time to see the wheelchair suddenly pivot sideways a few inches and whack the House Speaker solidly in the shin.

The resulting yelp was gratifying loud.

The accompanying solicitude was suitably contrite. "Oh, man, Jeff, I’m sorry! I haven’t quite got the hang of this thing yet."

Curtis turned away before he risked an outburst of laughter. It would’ve taken more than chance to alter the chair’s direction so abruptly. His boss was a better actor than most people ever guessed. And, once in a while, not above just a touch of payback.


	9. Sitting President, The 9

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 9:** _JOSH LYMAN_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

When the White House Deputy Chief of Staff walked into the West Wing on Wednesday, it was after an absence as long as the President’s own. Like the President, he was returning from a long flight; like the President, he had accomplished something worthy of note; like the President, he was about to embark on a whole new beginning.

_Un_ like the President, hardly anyone noticed this arrival at all.

And that was how it should be.

The one person who would have been guaranteed to notice... was gone.

That was _not_ how it should be.

Josh hiked the shoulder strap of his flight bag higher up his rumpled coat sleeve and tried to shove the depressing thoughts of his former assistant out of his head. He didn’t own Donna Moss. If she wanted to quit, she could. The fact that now was a monumentally bad time, the fact that she would have been more valuable than ever around here in the next while, the fact that he’d never believed in his worst imaginings that she’d been serious about moving on, about leaving the most prestigious address in the country, about leaving – him – did not matter. He had to face reality... on several fronts.

No matter how comfortable one can feel in one spot, no matter how well certain people can work together, life insists upon changing things.

And speaking of changes – "Leo!"

On the verge of disappearing down the nearest Christmas-bedecked corridor, his former boss about-faced at once. "Hey. You’re back."

"Just got in." Josh hurried over, Leo turned to resume his course, and they fell into step as naturally as could be. All members of the senior staff, and most of the support staff, were long used to holding conversations about both world policy and pet peeves at a swift march through these halls. The motion itself sometimes seemed to help the thought process along.

Surely here, this minute, right now, wasn’t the last time Josh would ever do this?

"How’d it go?" Leo glanced sideways with feigned casualness. He’d known, of course, about the Houston mission, although almost no one else did. The third highest-ranking person in the White House couldn’t simply drop off the radar for six days without telling someone. Still, Josh most definitely hadn’t wanted to advertise it broadband.

"Okay." He really didn’t want to think about it just now, either. About what it meant. It was too late to turn back, but that inevitability increased rather than reduced his nervousness.

He avoided the older man’s eyes – to no avail. Leo practically dissected him in mid-stride; Josh had been subjected to that shrewd gaze too many times not to recognize it without even looking. The clues were plain: their last chat about campaign tactics and Democratic nominees; his brief announcement of his assistant’s resignation and Leo’s philosophical rejoinder; his sudden departure for a city in Texas where no one of notable interest lived save a certain very interesting Congressman; his absence for almost all of the most chaotic week the White House had seen this year.

If his mission had ended in failure, he would’ve been back long before now.

"You’re going to do it." Leo was not asking a question.

Two paces, three. Josh kept his eyes on the floor. Why did he feel so much like a turncoat?

"Yeah."

Five paces, six.

Finally Josh couldn’t stand the silence any longer and turned to the older man beside him.

He could _see_ the former Chief of Staff measuring him up and down and inside out, weighing his decision, his conviction... his commitment.

Nine paces... ten...

Slowly, Leo started to grin.

Josh didn’t – and not because of his attempt at a poker face. He could not get over how uncomfortable he felt.

Leo reached out and clapped him warmly on the shoulder. "Way to go."

Even that iron endorsement didn’t make everything perfect. "I wish I knew for sure I was doing the right thing."

"You are." Leo left no room for doubt there. "For the Party, and for the country." He paused, a very deliberate beat. "And for the President."

Josh winced.

"Now go tell him."

Josh stopped short.

Leo did as well, revolving to face him. They stood there in the middle of the hall, other staffers flowing past them on both sides like water around stones, a strange little oasis of quiet in the midst of a busy day in the premier government office in the land.

"I can’t go. Not now."

"You can, and you should." Typically, Leo pulled no punches.

"But –" Josh looked frantically about, as though for an avenue of escape. " _Now?_ He needs us more than –"

"Do _not_ belittle him." Leo’s voice sliced through the air between them, snapping the younger man into stillness.

Silence vibrated between them.

"Do what you have to do, Josh. The world won’t wait. And the President won’t make _you_ wait."

More silence. The White House might as well have been deserted.

"How is he?" Josh could barely whisper.

Leo considered his reply, turning words over in his mind, clearly wondering how much to reveal... how blunt he should be.

"He’s himself."

Two words, but they covered a huge amount of ground – mostly relief. At the same time, they were surely designed to force Josh to find out the rest.

If so, the ploy worked. He simply had to know. To _see._

Leo started to turn away, walking onward, his job here done. "Go to the Residence. He’s been asking for you."

"Now?" Josh repeated. The staff tried hard not to intrude upon their leader’s private time, no matter how often they were forced to do precisely that.

"Now," Leo threw over his shoulder, marching off without a backward glance.

Josh had to stay there for several seconds longer before he could move.

The President had asked for him. Never mind that it meant interrupting the President’s private lunch and his vital midday down-time when his energy levels were so compromised. His Deputy Chief of Staff was duty-bound to obey. He couldn’t put this off even another hour.

He did put it off perhaps ten minutes, by detouring to his office first. Studiously ignoring the temp at Donna’s desk, Marla somebody-or-other, who saw him but made no move to accost him or badger him or dump work in his arms or joke with him about anything. He pushed the ache aside, deposited his flight bag and pulled out his laptop.

Rarely did an administrative employee receive clearance to the private and historical chambers upstairs in the White House. Those lucky few were mere guests – or intruders – and they made a point of memorizing as much as they could since there might not be a next time. Josh managed to find his way with minimal directions... mostly about his leader’s actual whereabouts. The Secret Service could be surprisingly civil when it suited them.

The President did try to have at least one annual party night in the Residence with his senior advisors and their closest assistants; just for fun, just for fellowship. It usually avoided the busy month of December, and it would be postponed even further this year due to The Man’s health complications. Josh suddenly found himself wondering if he’d even be around for that next get-together with the leader of the free world. Probably not.

Donna wouldn’t for sure.

At this rate they’d be lucky if the President himself could make it.

On the brink of panic, Josh evicted that thought. He had arrived.

He thought he heard a muffled reply to his knock and eased open the door to the handsome second-floor family dining room. No place setting on the table, no food, no one in sight.

"Mr. President?" Damn, did his voice just quiver?

"Josh? About time! Get in here."

The voice sounded so normal...

He closed the door carefully. "Uh, where –" The clatter of eating utensils cleared up that mystery. "Oh." It could only have come from the adjacent private kitchen.

He walked that way, trying to act his usual relaxed, overconfident self... a resolve that died the moment he hit the threshold.

Jed Bartlet looked up from the salad bowl in front of him and waved his fork in greeting. "Come on over." He pointed to the opposite side of the small kitchen table where he sat.

In his wheelchair.

Josh couldn’t help it: he was utterly magnetized.

The President kindly gave no sign. "Glad you’re back. It’s been too quiet around here. I’m sick of waiting for the other shoe to drop."

Through the shock digging long fingers into his brain, Josh considered that analogy an extremely accurate one. He’d been following the D.C. currents all through his absence, just like always. No one in the federal government was quite sure what to do next. So far, everyone who spoke to their Chief Executive found him absolutely unchanged – mentally.

Physically...

But, they were reminded time and again, the chair had little to do with the job. Right?

A lot of people had had enough trouble with the MS announcement years back: a _possibly_ crippling disease, but at the time still invisible, still benign. A disease that might not be any cause for concern after all.

Now...

No matter how open-minded folks claimed to be, there was a stigma here. A _big_ one. A big honking _visual_ stigma that could not be ignored.

"Sit down, Rambling Man." Bartlet’s firm tone acted like a slap of cold water. "And work with me here. I prefer dialogue to monologue any day."

Feeling like a puppet whose strings had just been expertly tugged, Josh obeyed. The wooden kitchen chair provided a backrest, but he was way too tense to need it.

Desperate to form some sense despite his incoherent thoughts, he said the first thing that came to mind. "You’re... eating salad."

For one heartbeat the President stared at him – and then he chuckled. Even a totally stupid comment could break the ice just fine.

"Abbey put all the snacks on the upper shelves, out of my reach." He sounded so much like a child being punished for stealing cookies that Josh had to grin. Even that not-so-obscure reference to an inability to stand didn’t smart as much now.

Neither of them mentioned that there had been a period on _Air Force One_ where the most powerful man in the world had been unable even to feed himself. Thank God on high he no longer needed to deal with _that_ humiliating level of powerlessness. Almost anything would be an improvement.

Suddenly the chair itself took on less of an image of horror. There were worse things to live with than partial paralysis. He still had the rest of his physical self-control... a fair bit of energy, considering... his strong personality... and his shining intellect. All else was bearable.

And his sense of humor. "But since _you’re_ here now –"

"I’m _not_ running counter to the First Lady’s orders, sir."

"Damn." The Man turned a dismal eye on his lettuce-dominated lunch. "Whatever possessed me to marry the strongest woman in America?"

Josh made a mental note to pass that rhetorical question on to Abbey the next time he saw her.

"Uh, I can wait until you’ve finished..."

"I’ve had enough." Bartlet shoved his cutlery aside and pushed himself back a foot or so. "I keep telling everyone, there’s nothing wrong with me that some junk food won’t cure. And they just keep telling _me_ that I’m not a Thanksgiving turkey to be fattened up." He snorted in annoyance and jerked his head towards the bowl. "Hence the salad."

He reached down with both hands and, before Josh could wonder what he was doing, wheeled himself around the table. Again he appeared oblivious to the slack-jawed gape as he maneuvered his chair to a convenient proximity, braced his arms on the rests, laced his fingers in his lap, and gave his Deputy Chief of Staff his undivided attention.

He could have kept the table between them, like a buffer to the truth. Instead he forced them both to confront it, no matter how disquieting. To accept it, and get past it.

In retrospect, Josh was hugely glad that he’d been taken off the much-prized China trip after all. He would not have willingly been a witness to his leader’s relapse for anything. This was more than painful enough. The Man’s absent suit jacket, unbuttoned waistcoat and loosened tie somehow made it even worse, like huge dents in medieval armor.

At least they were _both_ seated, on the same eye level. It helped, a bit.

"So, do I finally get to hear about what you’ve been up to? With Leo and his give-nothing-away attitude, I couldn’t tell if you were en route to Russia for some espionage – or if you were shopping for my Christmas present."

Josh had to fight a lump in his throat before he could answer. "Well... I do have a – a kind of present..." Deep breath. "But it’s...probably not one you’re... going to like."

Those blue eyes narrowed. "If you’re trying to stimulate my curiosity..."

Josh drew a deep breath, then suddenly let it out. "Mr. President, I’m sorry –"

" _Don’t_ apologize." All warmth fled from that rich baritone; suddenly it was very much the President who sat before him. "This is _not_ your fault."

"I know. And... that’s not what I meant." To his acute anxiety, Josh found himself freezing up again.

Bartlet tipped his head a notch and waited him out.

The younger man finally forced himself to reach for his inner blazer pocket. Inch by inch, he drew out a long white envelope.

Slowly, like a dimmer switch being cranked up, executive comprehension dawned.

Josh couldn’t hold that azure vision, couldn’t bear to see the disbelief, the disappointment – the betrayal. He looked down at the envelope instead: the final seal on his decision. He turned it over, and then over again... on the absolute verge of tearing it in half.

"You’re leaving." Not one iota of emotion could be heard. Was the President restraining his anger... or something else? Josh couldn’t tell, and he still didn’t dare look.

"I’m – I’m sorry – this is the worst possible time – I shouldn’t –"

"I know about Vinick." Bartlet shifted slightly in his chair, as though settling down for a long, comfortable chat. The sound made his guest glance up involuntarily.

No recrimination burned, no pain cried forth. Only understanding.

Josh started to breathe again.

"Leo told me you don’t think he’ll get the nomination. I disagree. The Republicans don’t have anyone else half as good, and they’ve got to know it. He’d be a tough man for any of our guys to beat." The President paused. "But you already know that. And you want to get our best bet ready for him."

Josh plucked up his courage. "Russell asked me to run his campaign."

Bartlet’s expression became guarded.

"So did Hoynes."

The Man exhaled. "They know a sharp operator when they see one. You were a huge asset to _my_ campaign, Josh, never mind my administration. Whichever one you back, I’d bet on him getting our nomination and then giving Vinick a hell of a run."

His use of particularly neutral words did not go unnoticed. He wasn’t picking sides or stating his preferences. He didn’t want to influence this political bulldog’s own assessment. He was, in effect, giving his second-closest staffer his blanket support.

Josh sat very still. "Turned them both down."

This time it was Jed Bartlet who was caught by surprise. His brows drew together. As of today, there hadn’t been one whisper of anyone else entering the ring.

Josh found himself feeling steady for the first time all morning... finally facing his own choice with confidence.

"Who?" A simple question, with a truckload of meaning. If Russell couldn’t pull Josh out of the White House, and Hoynes couldn’t, then this mystery man had to be a _really_ worthy candidate. How could no one have heard about him?

The time had come for Josh to stick to his guns, no matter what his leader thought or said. He’d gone too far to give up now.

And he honestly did believe in what he was going to do.

"Matt Santos."

Bartlet tilted his head again, a mannerism both familiar and reassuring to his entire staff. Not sarcastic; just taking his time to consider.

"You think he’s got what it takes?"

Josh hesitated for one second only, long enough to ask himself the same question and to be satisfied with his answer. "He’s the guy."

As simple as that. The right man for the job of President of the United States.

The current President nodded, displaying not the slightest doubt in that evaluation. "Then go for it. Give it every last drop of passion you’ve got. You’re the guy to champion him." He carefully stressed every word. "And don’t do it just for the Party. Don’t do it just for the fight. Do it for the country."

The next words were unspoken yet blazingly clear: _Do it for me._

Josh straightened even more in his seat, accepting a commission of the highest order. "Yes, _sir_."

Silence fell between them. It didn’t have quite the same awkwardness as when Josh had first walked in, but there were still certain matters to address.

"Uh... I’ve already laid the groundwork for Santos’ campaign. That’s why I couldn’t get back before today. Filing deadline’s coming up fast. But he agreed not to announce until I spoke to you." Josh had owed his employer that courtesy at the very least.

"And, uh... I can stay here another week or so..." He could feel his throat hitching again. He still held that envelope in his hand, still not ready to yield it up and make this final. "You know – help you find a new Deputy..."

Bartlet nodded again. "Thanks. That’ll be a big help."

Josh fidgeted some more. "Look, sir –" He groped for words. "I feel awful leaving you, for _any_ reason. But especially _now!_ You’ll have someone totally new in my spot... You don’t even have a Press Secretary yet..."

In fact, everywhere he looked there were more signs of irreversible change. Leo wasn’t Chief of Staff, C.J. _was_ Chief of Staff, Charlie was working for C.J. now...

And then he remembered the biggest change of all: the one right in front of him. Amazingly, for most of this conversation he’d managed to forget all about that chair.

"Change is both a variable and a constant," the President observed sagely. "Like death and taxes, it’s impossible to avoid. Yes, it means leave-taking and bond-breaking... but there is one very positive aspect: it’s always an opportunity to grow." Pause. "And the country needs to keep growing. When we _stop_ growing – we die."

"Yeah." Josh took a moment to study the man seated before him, to ponder how _he_ had changed... and how he had risen to the challenge.

Adaptability. Growth. Progress.

And _then_ Josh remembered another change – the third in this triple body blow that had so completely altered his once-familiar existence.

The memory caused him so much distress that it twisted his face.

"What is it?" Bartlet sounded genuinely concerned.

For one instant Josh seriously considered lying, hiding the truth, not revealing his feelings, not bothering his leader with such a (comparatively) petty issue.

But The Man deserved better from him than that.

"I don’t know if you knew this..." He scrabbled another few moments, then gave up and just blurted it out. "Donna quit."

As a rule the President didn’t have a very close link to most of the support staff. That was more Chief of Staff territory. There were a few exceptions, though: the ones he saw regularly. His own personal secretary, his secretary’s closest assistants, Leo’s – now C.J.’s – assistant... and Josh’s.

His features were strangely reserved: sad at the loss of such a fine employee, to be sure, yet nonjudgmental. "Why?"

"I dunno." Josh waved one hand aimlessly. "She said something about wanting... more."

He gritted his teeth... and then suddenly the suppressed anger – anger at her for being dissatisfied, anger at himself for not listening to her – just exploded. He leaped out of his chair. " _More?_ What could possibly be more than this? This is the _White House!_ There’s nowhere bigger to go! She can only move _down!_ Besides, she’s got no business leaving at a time like –"

Bartlet cut through the rampage. " _Chill,_ Josh."

Slowly, long-term training and respect re-established their hold. Josh stopped his pacing and wild gesticulating, although he couldn’t quite bring himself to sit back down.

"I saw much the same reaction around here when Will left. Remember?"

Josh certainly did. Still, this felt worse. Will had been on the team for less than a year. Donna had been one of them since their first White House campaign.

Then a totally new thought hit him in the gut: what would C.J. and Toby say about his decision to leave? Would they agree that he was needed to build the foundation for the next run to the Oval Office... or would they see him as a deserter? Especially _now?_

How could any of them even _consider_ leaving this place? Not just the building, not just the job – but the _President?_

With the patience of a teacher and a parent, The Man continued. "Yes, I will grant that it’s a great honor to work here... but it’s not the _only_ honor there is. In some people’s eyes it may not even be the _highest_ honor. Even if a person has the skills and the luck to land a job here for a time, that doesn’t automatically mean that they want to stay here forever. And I’m not so full of myself that I get insulted when someone decides to channel his or her talents in a new direction. I’ve benefited from those talents for awhile, and that’s enough to ask. They’re not turning their backs on me. To some people, this will be the pinnacle of their working days; to others, it’s a stepping stone. And that’s fine. No one should get in the way of their personal progress – not even the Presidency. I’m not the be-all and end-all of anyone’s employment. There _are_ better things out there. Other ways to serve the country. Other venues of growth."

Bartlet spoke with increasing earnestness. "I let Will go because he wanted to. He has a bigger picture in sight. I let Charlie go, too; I refused to keep him tied to me, because he has so much potential. I’ll let Donna go, since that’s the way she seems to want it as well."

Josh opened his mouth, but no sound came out. The logic was just too irrefutable.

The Man leaned forward. "And I’m letting _you_ go, Josh, because you feel the same way. Because, even though you’ve had a great run here, and even though you’re very valuable to me, there’s something else you need to do right now. There’s some _one_ else who needs you even more than I do – and that someone is yourself. You need to grow."

He sighed heavily and glanced sideways. "I’m going to have to let _all_ of you go at some stage. I’m going to have to let go of this myself."

Then, slowly, his features firmed. "But not before I must. Not so long as I know that my best contribution is here."

In this new silence, he fiddled distractedly with a curious silver bracelet on his right wrist that Josh noticed now for the first time. Those blue eyes probed a distant horizon visible to no one else.

Josh had no idea what to say.

What he _did_ say came straight from the heart, with no conscious intent. "I’d do just about anything to get you a third term."

Bartlet could not have missed the unswerving loyalty that infused those words. His face relaxed again, into a smile of deep appreciation.

"We’ve seen a lot of mention of FDR in the news lately. Might as well add another reason. I don’t know if you’ve ever read about the controversy when he ran for _his_ third term. People were wearing buttons that said, ‘Washington wouldn’t, Grant couldn’t, Roosevelt shouldn’t,’ and ‘Out for Stealing Third,’ and ‘No Third Term-ites!’ Of course, he had to fight a world war. It was a sufficient excuse at the time, and I pray that it’ll never be needed again. Actually, I hope that no _other_ justification will be used, either." Pause. "We can’t immerse ourselves in a time warp here, celebrating past victories, dealing the same cards we’ve always used, the same way we’ve always played them. We can’t hold the country back – which is what will happen if the same people run it too long. Sooner or later, change _must_ come, to this nation and to the world. And we’ll need newer, stronger minds to deal with it."

The Man could have been standing at a podium right now, addressing all of America. No, he definitely had _not_ changed – not where it counted.

"So we accomplish all we can with the time we have, we set the best possible example for others... and we prepare the next generation to carry on after us."

Josh sat there and absorbed this truth. It _was_ true; no matter how much all of them wished it, they couldn’t freeze time. Not even when they _knew_ they had the best President around.

In the subsequent wave of silence, Bartlet slowly, gently extended his hand.

Josh had forgotten all about that long white envelope.

It almost physically hurt to release it. To let go of his life here, to confirm that his service to one of the finest leaders ever was drawing to a close.

Regardless of what his boss – his _former_ boss – just said, this had surely been his crowning achievement.

But there would be other peaks of accomplishment in his life... maybe not _quite_ as high, but high enough. He was still young.

Then again, one peak just _might_ be as high after all, if he worked at it hard enough. It had now become his official task to prepare the next generation for the White House.

Then Josh looked at the man in front of him. What lay ahead for a former President? This certainly was _his_ zenith. He had almost literally nowhere else to go.

And then, when he should have been free to enjoy the fruits of his labors, that chair had to muscle in. The _injustice_...

But then, _he_ wasn’t looking upon this change as a harbinger of doom, and he of all people had a right to feel that way. Instead, he was doing his job up to the very last moment, accomplishing everything he possibly could _while_ he could... and he was fighting to recover his health with the same iron conviction that he applied to his office. With the unassailable belief that he would succeed.

Bartlet looked at the envelope he now held with more than a touch of regret... and more than a touch of pride.

"All parents go through this, Josh. You have to let your children fly."


	10. Sitting President, The 10

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 10:**   _MARGARET GALLAGHER_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

How is an employee supposed to choose between the boss and the job?

This can be not so much a professional conflict of interest as a personal conflict of preference. Duty versus affection. And it’s not exclusively affection towards the boss, either. Some people hold the same job for many years, never mind who happens to be the boss at any given moment. They know their position so well and _do_ it so well that subsequent supervisors, if smart, use those skills rather than messing with them. In fact, often the boss adjusts to the employee, not the other way around. Not everyone likes admitting that folks below them on the totem pole know so much more than they do, but it’s bound to happen now and then.

Advantages to this situation are when the boss needs guidance... and when the boss tries to sneak something past the rules. The employee, normally the first line of defense, can become both teacher and scrutinizer. Here, the job always comes first.

Alternatively, some people follow one boss from job to job. Those are the rare ones, able to learn and adapt to totally new environments time and again. This requires a very strong trust between boss and employee, and a great deal of flexibility on both parts.

Advantages to _this_ situation are that each newbie is working with at least one other newbie that they know very well... and that when the boss bends the rules, the assistant knows when it’s for a good reason and knows how to help. Here, the boss comes first. Always.

The White House was no different.

When Jed Bartlet arrived, he brought Delores Landingham as his executive secretary. She had known him since he attended Notre Dame, she had worked as his secretary since he’d been a Congressman, she was extraordinarily capable of handling any problem anywhere – even in the Oval Office – and she was one individual (besides his wife) who refused unconditionally to take any guff from him.

She died tragically in a car crash, and everyone in the West Wing mourned her... but the President most of all. The illusion of bickering notwithstanding, her loyalty to him had been returned in full measure.

When Josh arrived, he brought Donna as his Senior Assistant for Strategic Planning. She had charmed her way onto the first Bartlet campaign and quickly proved that she could keep the irrepressible Deputy Chief of Staff on track. Her astonishing skill in this field sometimes elevated her to almost an auxiliary member of the senior staff.

Now Donna had resigned, suddenly and to everyone’s amazement, apparently looking for greener pastures. Or, more specifically – so the scuttlebutt went – Josh-free pastures. She had moved past both the job and the boss.

When Leo arrived, he brought Margaret as _his_ assistant. She had been on his staff since his service as Labor Secretary in the second administration before Bartlet. She had outlasted every other employee ever attached to his office, developing a thick skin against his crotchety attitude and a mother hen complex against his workaholic tendencies. She had been there during the worst of his addiction days.

And now _Leo_ had left his post. Not willingly, but for medical reasons that had terrified all of them.

Margaret gave thanks every day that she hadn’t _really_ lost him. He was still around the White House... still his old gruff self... still alive...

... but he didn’t need her the way he used to.

Instead, C.J. needed her. Badly. There was just too much about the incredibly complicated and detailed job of Chief of Staff to learn overnight, or even over a few weeks. C.J. was doing an excellent job in such a short time, but she made no secret of the fact that she owed much of her success to the eccentric yet ultra-efficient assistant she had inherited from her predecessor.

C.J. had also said that if Margaret chose to leave and follow Leo, she wouldn’t stand in the way. But it didn’t take a psychic to tell that she was seriously hoping Margaret would stay.

All of this led up to Margaret’s dilemma. Her first loyalty was to her (former) boss. Her second was to her job. Right now, her former boss didn’t need her. Her job did.

So long as Leo continued to hang around as an unofficial advisor, he didn’t have his own staff. Didn’t _need_ a staff. And Margaret could put off her final uncertain decision. But the moment he did become official, and needed a staff, or the moment he left the White House for good, she would have to choose.

She most definitely did _not_ want to choose.

She needed distractions. Anything to keep her from agonizing over the possible _need_ to choose.

She was placing a new stack of documents on C.J.’s desk – once Leo’s desk – when C.J. entered through the outer office.

Margaret barely glanced up. "The Governor of Idaho just called."

"Thanks. Give me two minutes, then get him on the line." C.J. headed behind that desk.

"How’s the President today?" It never occurred to Margaret not to ask.

C.J. glanced at her wristwatch and sighed, venting a clear note of concern. "It’s still early." Then her mood lightened. "But it’s also Thursday, and he’s managed to spend at least part of every day this week in the office. He hasn’t lost his glasses, he hasn’t fallen, and he hasn’t staged a full-scale revolution against his health regime. I’d say things aren’t too bad."

After Debbie, Margaret saw more of The Man than any other support staffer over the course of a typical day, if only through sheer proximity. She was well aware of C.J.’s efforts, and many others’ as well, to help their leader without blatantly coddling him. No one wanted to be in the same zip code with the President if he ever acquired _that_ suspicion.

Even as she sorted files into a closer semblance of order, Margaret wondered how he was doing, _really_ doing, with his sudden and compelling change of lifestyle. What he thought of it. How well he was coping with it.

"Do you think he’s ever tempted to do any pop-wheelies?"

Her new boss jerked up, eyes wide. _"What?"_

Given her propensity for odd conversation at odd times, Margaret ran into that kind of reaction far too frequently to be fazed. "I’m just asking. I have a girlfriend who’s in a chair, and she can do the most amazing stunts –"

"Oh, no," a voice of quiet dread muttered behind her. She turned at once. So did C.J.

Leo had just opened the private door to the Oval Office – from the other side. And right behind him was the President.

"What’s this about stunts?" Bartlet sounded more than a little intrigued.

Margaret froze in disconcertment. She hadn’t meant to be overheard. She sure didn’t want to come across as disrespectful. Plus, what ideas might she have accidentally planted?

C.J. speared her with a glare, thinking the very same thing. "Don’t give him any ideas."

"Claudia Jean, I resent that," The Man countered merrily as he propelled his chair through the passageway, slowly yet unassisted. "I’m nothing if not an idea man."

"Wish I’d knocked first," the former Chief of Staff grumbled. He knew his assistant best; he knew what she could be like.

"Watch your toes, Leo." None of them could tell if that was intended as an honest warning in the narrow doorway or a playful threat for trying to deny him some entertainment. "Now, Margaret, you were saying...?"

With daggers coming at her from both sides and a twinkle coming from the front, she hesitated. By Leo’s expression, if she pursued that topic she’d pay for it later, and C.J. would back him up all the way. But... the President had spoken.

Besides, there was some element inside her – a love for obscure information, oddball concepts, wacky theories, all sorts of weird stuff – that just had to come out.

"I... was saying how I have a friend who’s really good at getting about. She can roll all around a room on only two wheels, she can go down stairs –"

_"Margaret!"_ That came from two angles: Leo’s teeth-clenched growl and C.J.’s strident protest. She actually jumped back a bit.

Then the two senior staffers traded a peculiar look with each other: a look that their "mutual" assistant deciphered at once. In silence, Leo apologized for trespassing on what was now C.J.’s turf; C.J., in contrast, was taking mental notes on how Leo dealt with this effective yet eccentric employee.

Bartlet snickered, reading the play of emotions just as accurately. "Will you two lighten up? I want to hear this."

He sounded exactly like a grandfather, overriding his children in order to humor his granddaughter. He looked like one, too, in his three-piece suit, folding his arms and cocking his head, mischief radiating in waves. Margaret would have been honored if she didn’t feel so anxious at being put on the spot.

The President studied her with unnerving intent. Of course he’d find any new and different twist to life in a chair worthy of consideration at least...

Or maybe it was something about _her_. She just might be the first person around here to get past the discomfort of seeing him in that chair and focus on the ways he could play with it. There had to be _some_ methods of enjoyment, and she’d hinted at a couple already.

She couldn’t prevent a smile now. He _needed_ to learn to enjoy it. That would be a big part of his healing. To hell with the dignity of the office; he was human!

Both Chiefs of Staff, past and present, subsided with resignation. They really didn’t have a choice. Of course, anything that provided executive cheer should be welcome... but there were good diversions and _dangerous_ ones.

Margaret picked up on that vibe herself. She had better stick to the somewhat less risky suggestions, at least for the nonce. Certainly no one would allow their Chief Executive to launch his chair down even a short flight of steps, now or ever – but in an overconfident moment he might not share the same sensible view...

Imagine explaining _that_ kind of incident to the press.

She repressed a shudder and veered into safer waters. "Well, among other things, my friend also told me that some paraplegics have finished a full forty-two-kilometer marathon in two hours and ten minutes. Most able-bodied men win in two hours and eight minutes – if they’re really good."

"See, it pays to have your own set of wheels," Bartlet agreed, as though talking about a sports car. He looked delighted with the minutiae, but then his love for trivia was well-known far beyond these walls.

Margaret didn’t tell him that, among the support staff, she was considered the trivia champ runner-up in the White House. If he found out, he’d demand a match for sure. No sense _looking_ for trouble.

"I did some research on my own," she continued. "At the Paralympics this year, right after the regular Games, the United States was one of the very few First World countries that did not send a media crew to Athens, or air any events."

C.J. and Leo were glaring harder than ever.

Okay, on second thought she should’ve skipped that one. She had shot down her own plan to come up with ideas for amusement, she had injected a depressing note, and she had inadvertently delivered an indirect reprimand to the political leader of the United States, who sat right in front of her – all in one sentence. A bit of a record, even for her.

The President nodded. "I read that. Bad showing on our part."

At once the pressure dropped; he did not appear the least offended. Clearly he was boning up on facts like this as well: not only to sate his own love for obscure details in all things, but to learn more about whatever now diametrically related to him.

" _I_ heard something about the Games," he went on, eager as ever to show off his own knowledge. "An American placed fourth in the fifteen-hundred-meter Olympic Demonstration event, which was held just ten minutes before the major one-hundred-meter final... and no one here at home knows about it! Disgraceful."

Margaret got the distinct impression that future Paralympians would be receiving a lot more media attention _and_ political support. And that was only for the good.

Bartlet sat up a bit straighter. "I’ve just had a great idea."

All three employees braced themselves. This could be very good – or not...

"I’ll offer to represent the U.S. in the next Paralympics myself!"

Margaret stifled a giggle. C.J. smiled. Leo rolled his eyes.

Somehow The Man sounded absolutely serious. He could do a marvelous straight face. "You bet! I’ll be in great shape by then, and that’ll bring the cameras along for sure!"

C.J. was fighting disbelief. "Sir, every single one of us plans to see you out of that chair _long_ before the next Games in four years."

For one second he did his best to look disappointed. "Aw, spoil my dream."

When her boss finally let out her own laughter, Margaret felt it safe to follow suit.

"Now I don’t even remember why we were coming in here to begin with. Although I’m very glad we did." Bartlet aimed his smile at the woman responsible for this jovial atmosphere and she blushed, very happy that for once she had been of direct service to him.

He started to pivot himself around, in preparation for returning to his office, and then stopped as a fresh thought took shape. "You know," he announced to the room at large, "my arm strength is going to increase drastically after a couple more weeks of pushing myself around. I’ll have to make sure that when I do leave this chair behind I don’t lose my new conditioning."

"Push-ups on the Great Seal?" Leo proposed mildly.

"I’ll go you one better. How about arm wrestling?" The Man ignored the astonished blinking around him, rolled himself to the edge of C.J.’s desk, and plunked his left elbow on the corner, hand up and palm open, ready to take on all comers. His bright gaze swept the occupants of this room in open challenge; his mouth fought against a smirk.

For at least five seconds, no one moved. The idea was preposterous on several levels.

Leo finally spoke up before anyone else’s reluctance peaked. "I _might_ wrestle with you, sir – but I don’t think my nurse would be too happy if she found out."

Margaret tried to imagine it anyway, and failed. The second one started that strange excuse for a sport, one pretty much forfeited all dignity. Besides, it was a form of macho one-upmanship that didn’t fit this gentlemanly pair at all. Bartlet was in a more playful mood than usual even for him.

The President lowered his hand and adopted every appearance of deep umbrage. "Did you just refuse to obey an executive order?"

Leo stopped a moment to consider. "Yeah... I think I did. Haven’t done that since yesterday," he mused in good humor. "I must be losing my touch."

Margaret was just loving their exchange. Despite her convenient location to this office and to the ovoid one next door, she rarely got to witness such a natural buddy moment between these two unique and wonderful men.

Resignedly, Bartlet retrieved his arm and settled back in his seat. "Well, now that you mention it, _my_ nursemaids might raise a stink for similar reasons. Tell you what – we’ll put it off until both of us have medical clearance. Which also means that we’ll both grow stronger in the interim. That should make for a better match anyway!"

"You’ll have the unfair advantage of more regular practice."

"Ah, but you’ve been fairly warned."

Margaret snuck a glance at C.J., who was observing and grinning just like her. This whole repartee sounded so natural that it lifted _their_ spirits as well.

The Man glanced around, obviously feeling too expansive to return voluntarily to business at this moment. "All right, Leo, let’s have a chess game instead. Just for the fun of it. I’ve got a new sparring partner now, so for you the pressure’s off." He looked up with both the light of battle and the glow of friendship shining in his vision.

"Oh, sure. Nothing like getting my ass kicked during my spare time as well. No obligation." But Leo didn’t refuse. He, too, was prepared to go a very long way in service to his leader... who also happened to be his best friend.

C.J. looked unsympathetic. "Go for it. He’s finding me too predictable already."

Bartlet didn’t let her get away so easily. "You come along, too! You’ll learn something."

"Perhaps later, sir. I don’t know the _meaning_ of spare time anymore." More to the point, doubtless she didn’t want to encroach upon these two old friends’ interlude together.

Leo held the door for the President to precede him back into the Oval... but before he followed, he paused and turned to his successor one last time.

Margaret’s sonar pinged at once. She knew that locked-down look of his, and she knew to be wary of it.

His tone was deceptively level. "C.J., if the Secret Service should come around looking for the instigator of any bad stunt ideas..."

And the penny dropped.

C.J. mirrored his expression perfectly. "We know who to sic them on."

Neither senior staffer so much as glanced Margaret’s way. Even so, she didn’t need any more encouragement to duck her head and slip quickly out to her own desk.


	11. Sitting President, The 11

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 11:** _DONNA MOSS_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport – its name drawn from two Presidents, as though one wasn’t already enough – seemed less busy than might have been expected two days before Christmas. Most travelers had sensibly booked their flights earlier in order to avoid the rush... thereby creating exactly the rush they’d thought to avoid. Some preferred to reach their destinations at the last minute and leave as soon as possible afterwards, cutting down on the length of time spent at a required family event when they’d really rather be elsewhere. Some simply hadn’t known until the _very_ last minute that they were actually free to take a holiday this year.

And some had been surprised by other events, other changes... and wanted only to get away from it all.

Donna sat on a bench of seats near her boarding gate, overcoat across her lap, carry-on luggage at her feet. She wasn’t alone by any means – at least a dozen others had gathered for the same flight to Milwaukee, Wisconsin – but she wasn’t crowded cheek by jowl, either. She would have selected a seat against the wall, or in a corner, had such a spot been free. Instead she sat near the center, ignored by her fellows voyageurs, her spine ramrod-straight, her hands clenched together, glancing at all passers-by in thinly-veiled apprehension.

She didn’t feel ignored at all. Rather, she felt like all of them were covertly watching her. She felt like there was a huge sign hovering right over her head, flashing on and off with red LED letters: "Escapee from the White House!"

She wasn’t escaping; nothing trapped her there. Well, nothing did any longer.

Did anything _ever_ trap her there? Really?

She had quit her job. A job at the most exclusive address in the country, a job in the heart of the federal government, a job that countless people would cheat to gain and then kill to keep. A job with long hours and lots of stress, yes, and even genuine danger at times... but with terrific and dedicated people. A job that permitted her to contribute to the national politics of the world’s last and greatest superpower – even to actually influence them on occasion. A job that let her make a difference on a scale few people ever conceived of. A job that allowed her into the immediate presence of Congresspeople, Senators, Governors, celebrities, ambassadors and foreign diplomats from around the world.

A job that had introduced her to America’s First Family. A job that made her known to and appreciated by the President of the United States.

A job that brought her into constant contact with Josh Lyman.

_"I work at the White House."_ Six words that were guaranteed to win respect from all angles, whether one was at a cocktail party or trying to get into a crowded restaurant or had just been pulled over for speeding. The dream of a lifetime.

And she’d given that up.

She had a new job starting next week: a job in the private sector, a job with far higher wages and far more opportunity for advancement. A job that the impressive cachet of her previous position had made possible. All the same, she wondered if she didn’t deserve the title of Biggest Idiot in the Country. Her new job wasn’t in the White House. Her old one _was_.

If the people around her right here were aware of what she’d done, and why, she just knew they’d gape at her, one and all, and ask the exact same question: _Are you crazy?_

She couldn’t blame Josh. It really _had_ been a privilege to work with him all these years. First to work towards the White House, and then – miracle of miracles – inside it. The campaign that rocketed out of nowhere to win the Democratic nomination, the charisma of their brilliant candidate, the intoxicating triumph in November, the first Bartlet administration with all its gifts and promise, the re-election despite all that had gone wrong in the four years prior, the bills passed, the jobs created, the appointments and deals, the benefits devised to aid so many others... and then the two enormous international breakthroughs, two crusades for peace, one after another, that were sure to change the political mindset of the world...

There had been national and international crises. The shooting at Rosslyn, and the President’s horrifyingly narrow escape when the assassins hadn’t even been aiming for him. The public announcement of the President’s MS, and the ache of betrayal that everyone in the West Wing couldn’t help but feel. The federal Grand Jury, so determined to eviscerate the President, every member of his family and every member of his staff without compunction. The censorship by Congress, where the President publicly accepted the blame for his sin of omission and spared his people a prolonged legal nightmare. The horror of Zoey’s kidnapping, and the President yielding up his tremendous military power in order to protect the nation from himself.

Somehow, together, they got through it all. They had survived. They had grown stronger. They had gone on to do even more good for the country.

There had been less public, more personal earthquakes. Josh’s critical injury at the Newseum shooting, and the months of his slow recovery that Donna had overseen. Josh’s Post-Trauma Stress Disorder the following winter, taking them all by surprise, that Donna had helped to identify. Donna’s screwed-up testimony at the Grand Jury, where Josh bailed her out of a threatening charge of perjury. The time Donna honestly thought that her presumed American citizenship didn’t exist after all, and Josh went out of his way to prove otherwise. The time Josh drew the President’s attention to Donna’s former teacher, an unsung heroine, after which the President set up that personal phone call for her benefit as well. The time Donna and Josh, with Toby, were left behind by the executive motorcade in Unionville, Indiana, while campaigning across America, and had to get themselves back to D.C. the hard way. The day the entire federal government was shut down, and yet Donna worked nonstop for Josh without pay just the same, so that his critical work for the nation didn’t suffer.

And then the terrible, terrible day Donna’s car blew up in Gaza, and Josh rushed across the Atlantic to be with her.

There were many good memories, and a few truly glorious memories, and some frightening memories, and some just plain sad memories when small details and big hopes had gone wrong. All in all, it was a career that Donna had grown into and excelled at and treasured.

And yet... over recent months... a strange sense of unrest had set in. A slowly increasing, irresistible conviction that it was time for her to change. To grasp something new. To stretch beyond her current advantaged yet restricted borders.

What brought this on? It certainly antedated her trip to Israel. Had that been the catalyst? Or had something else occurred that she couldn’t even remember now, something small yet significant about her work? Or about the people at her work?

The job hadn’t changed in seven years, so it most likely wouldn’t anytime soon. For sure Josh hadn’t changed. Other changes taking place around the West Wing didn’t directly affect her. Therefore, in some unknown way, the change must have occurred inside herself.

Why? And why _now?_

The President had just been knocked over by a crippling relapse. He needed a cohesive staff more than ever. And even if he did recover, which thankfully seemed probable, he still had to leave office next January. Would it have been so hard for Donna to stick out that final year? To stand by her leader, to put up with her boss, and just let the job expire naturally? To leave when everyone else left, so as not to stand out or look like she was _running_ out?

Instead, she’d left without saying goodbye to anyone – not her boss, not her peers, not her personal friends on the staff. She’d given no warning and no explanation. She’d vanished before any of them could argue, agree, or even just wish her well.

Had she, in essence, run away? Usually people flee from things that they no longer want to face.

Putting up with Josh wasn’t _that_ torturous. They really did work well together. They _clicked_. And, in their traded barbs, she usually racked up the more points.

She had dedicated eight years of her life to him – or more accurately, to her job with him. In career terms that was still a rather brief period, but it made more sense to leave when a good opening arose, since she had no guarantee of such an opening a year ahead when she’d _have_ to go. She was sure she’d made the wise move.

Josh, by comparison, had to be convinced that she was completely in error. He’d see this as leaving _him_ , not leaving the job. He’d believe it so much that she feared he might come looking for her. This was why she sat here so tensely, watching everyone around her, dreading the sight of his familiar silhouette as he tracked her down, knowing that he’d launch into her right there in public and tell her on no uncertain terms how stupid she’d been.

He couldn’t convince her that she was wrong to leave, but he could guilt her over leaving so swiftly, and at such a lousy time.

She checked the departure time for her plane on the monitor. It remained on schedule: not late, not early. She checked the actual hour on the clock. Still seventeen minutes until boarding, and then another half-hour to take-off. How were those minutes ever going to pass? Not until her flight lifted off the tarmac would she feel even moderately beyond reach – beyond return.

Donna sat in the security-screened section of the airport; passengers only. But even that might not stop him. Josh would buy his own ticket if he thought there was no other way to get into this area and corner her –

Her pocketed cell phone rang cheerfully.

She’d forgotten to turn it off.

So this was how he’d reach her. Not in person after all, but just as effectively.

Except, this way she could ignore him.

But what if it _wasn’t_ him?

She drew out the phone, careful not to answer it just yet, and checked the number in the display screen. Not his.

It definitely came from inside the White House, though; that prefix was unique. However, it wasn’t a number she recognized – not that she knew everyextension within its walls. Each of the senior staff and most of the support staff, sure, but there were a _few_ other employees...

Had Josh borrowed a phone on some obscure desk, guessing that she wouldn’t answer if she knew it was him?

It might _not_ be him. But even if it wasn’t, what could anyone else in her former office say to her that might conceivably matter this late in the game? What words couldn’t wait until after the holiday – after she’d started her new job and burned all of her bridges once and for all?

The only way to find out was to answer.

Her fellow travelers were starting to stare, wondering with different degrees of annoyance why she sat there and held this persistently ringing phone and just looked at it.

At last, she drew a deep breath and opened the connection. "Hello?"

If it _was_ Josh, she was going to hang up so fast...

_"Donna! I’m glad I caught you."_

She gasped out loud. "Mr. President!"

_That_ caught the attention of everyone who hadn’t been watching her already. She felt her face go pale, and then pink in embarrassment.

_"You were expecting someone else? I hope I’m not a disappointment."_

"Uh – no, sir, I wasn’t – exactly – a disappointment?" Totally off-guard, she almost laughed. Trust him to slip in an amusing remark by way of greeting.

Some people were still staring. Some were trying _not_ to stare, but every ear had to be leaning this way. No doubt some were wondering if they’d heard her right. No doubt some were sure they had. No doubt they all were curious as to who this young woman could be, having the high honor of a direct phone conversation with the President of the United States. Was she an employee, a former employee, a political contact? A personal friend? A _very_ personal friend?

Who _wouldn’t_ like to listen in?

Please God, don’t let there be any reporters around –

"Uh, just a moment, sir, please." Donna grabbed her coat and bag, then rose and scanned the area for any semblance of privacy. Near a window would be best, so as to maintain a clear signal. She quickly found a spot that would do. One bonus was that she could see the entire waiting area in the reflection of the glass; this allowed her to watch her own back without being obvious about it, and to spot anyone sneaking over to eavesdrop.

Or to insist that she stay.

_"Is something wrong?"_ The familiar baritone sounded slightly worried.

"No, sir! I just wanted a bit of isolation for your call –"

She winced as a speaker overhead boomed out the next flight departure. Isolation had come with a price. Then she offered up a frantic hope that _her_ flight wouldn’t be called until after this conversation ended. She wouldn’t be allowed to use her phone on board or even _while_ boarding, she’d have no privacy at all, and she’d rather miss her plane than cut the President short.

_"I take it you’re at the airport?"_

Donna frowned. "How –"

_"I couldn’t quite make out that announcement over the PA, but it was from either an airport or a hospital, and they’re supposed to make you turn cell phones off in hospitals. Besides, I’d heard that you were leaving, not that you were ill or injured."_

Her first reaction was a smile. He hadn’t lost one iota of his intellect.

Her second reaction was to reassure him that she was absolutely fine, no health problems in the least.

Her third reaction was a barely-muffled groan. He knew. He knew that she’d departed from the White House.

The President knew... and he was talking to her right now.

Okay, she had only worked for him by proxy, and rarely dealt with him directly... but he was still her national leader as well as her employer. He knew her by name and he appreciated her work. Plus, she had given no notice, trained no replacement. She had left her boss in the lurch, and by extension her boss’s boss as well.

The President didn’t specifically need Donna Moss... but he needed someone knowledgeable in her job, especially now when he had so many other things distracting him. And she had deprived him of that asset.

She hadn’t left because she wanted to take anything from him or Josh or anyone else. She’d left for her reasons only. But right now that made her feel hideously selfish.

_"You’re flying home for Christmas?"_

"Uh, yes, sir."

_"That’s good. None of us see enough of our families around here."_

That was no less true for him than for her. Even the First Family couldn’t easily get together. The constant public attention only made it more difficult.

Donna was torn between the delight of being personally sought out by him like this – no warning, no intermediaries, from his own private line – and the embarrassment of having to discuss her sudden resignation with him. She searched desperately for a neutral topic.

"Congratulations on the Chinese summit, sir. And on the upcoming North Korea summit, too. That was truly amazing work."

_"Yeah, well, we’ve yet to see that the whole idea doesn’t die stillborn."_

"You won’t let it." She had no doubt of that. His voice was so strong, so positive...

Memory slammed into her yet again, forcing out words before she thought them through. "How are you feeling?"

Oh, _why_ did she _say_ that? _Everyone_ must be asking him the same thing all the time!

To her wonder and pleasure and relief, he replied frankly with neither discomfort nor irritation. _"Not bad, thanks. I can get to like sleeping in every day. And I’m learning how much fun cruising around the West Wing on wheels can be. After all this practice, it’s almost too bad I won’t need this chair a whole lot longer."_

In that brief, casual statement, the leader of the free world transmitted a world of hope.

"That’s wonderful. _Oh,_ that’s wonderful!" Donna had to lean her free hand against the glass of the window to counteract her balance-disrupting joy.

_"It’s an interesting experiment in locomotion."_ She could hear the breath of humor at his massive understatement. Then he grew pensive. _"Come to think of it, you went through much the same thing not so long ago, right?"_

"Yes, sir!" Well she remembered being pushed around by others, and then wrestling with the chair herself, graduating to the motorized model, and then the crutches. And then, finally, the day she threw those crutches away. The normalcy... the happiness... the _freedom_...

She basked in the sudden wave of affinity that swept over her: affinity for this great man who was enduring and _would_ endure those same basic stages in all their awkwardness and inconvenience and discomfiture and sympathetic attention.

Most important of all, most important by far, he too would heal.

_"Well, if you could do your job under Josh from a chair, then I can certainly do MY job; it’s nowhere near as demanding."_

She started to laugh – and stopped. Her job under Josh –

_"And on that note, I hear you have a brand-new position lined up."_

All amusement vanished in an instant; so fast, in fact, that she couldn’t speak even to confirm that truth.

_"So now it’s my turn to congratulate you."_

"ME?"

_"Are we talking about someone else here?"_ The Bartlet humor never failed.

"No... but... but I left without so much as a by-your-leave."

_"What you’ve done is start out on a whole new adventure. You think I’d hold you back from it?"_ Clearly the small talk was over. _"You’re a free person, Donna. Working at the White House doesn’t mean that you automatically belong to me."_

She’d known that, of course. She didn’t belong to Josh, either; she didn’t need his permission or his blessing. Having the President’s blessing, though, really meant a lot to her.

"Still, I couldn’t have chosen a worse time to leave. You need _less_ work to deal with right now, not more. I should never have left the West Wing when there was so much to do –"

_"Hey, you have to put your own life first. You need to take the opportunities as they come, when they come. We all have to move on eventually."_ Pause. _"You want funny? Josh said much the same thing."_

Donna blinked in confusion. "Josh...?"

_"Resigned yesterday."_

"He WHAT?" She was too shocked to care who overheard now.

_"I take it you didn’t know in advance."_

She struggled to find voice. To _think._ "He... never told me... never even _hinted_..."

Her mind reeled. Josh... leaving the White House... for _any_ reason...

Leaving at a time like _this?_

The anger billowed upwards like smoke from a forest fire. "How DARE he? When you need him so badly?"

The President’s chuckle rumbled over the connection. _"You two sound like tape recordings of each other. He’s a free agent as well, you know. He’s going to run Matt Santos’ federal campaign... and hopefully he’s going to be backing the next President."_

Josh had never mentioned _this_ to her, either, but she made the deduction. He was on a very tight schedule: a filing schedule. He’d had no alternative but to act now.

She didn’t have the same excuse...

_"In fact, Donna, I suspect that one day soon we’ll all owe you a vote of gratitude."_

That floored her. "Gratitude?"

_"Santos wasn’t even going to run. Josh had to convince him, and then he had to promise to head up the campaign. But Josh couldn’t bring himself to leave my staff... until the day he heard that YOU’D left."_ Bartlet’s tone became even more earnest. _"Donna, you might have lit the fire under Josh that both Santos and the whole nation needs. You may think Josh was holding you back here, although of course he wasn’t intending to – but I wonder if, in a way, you weren’t inadvertently doing the same thing to him."_

She just stood there with her mouth open.

_"He really thinks Santos is the right man to run – and win. But if he’d left it just a bit longer, he would’ve lost his chance, and Santos’ chance as well. And the nation’s chance. So, whether you like it or not, I want to thank you."_

Donna felt like she was being bombarded by data. She couldn’t claim credit for any of this... She hadn’t known...

She snatched at what to her was the most criticalpoint. "But this leaves you without a Deputy Chief of Staff – or an _assistant_ to the Deputy Chief of Staff, who could facilitate the transfer." Guilt arose, almost throttling her.

_"Don’t worry about it. Now if you chose to ‘recant,’ we’d certainly welcome you back..."_ The President’s exaggerated verb choice prompted a brief grin. _"But you’ve got your new life mapped out already. I wouldn’t interfere in any way with your pursuit of it. Josh promised me another week or so. We’ll miss you, but we’ll muddle through somehow."_

She swallowed, trying to figure out what to say next...

_"I would like to ask you one favor, though, if that’s all right."_

"Of – of course, sir. Anything!"

_"Well, after you’ve settled into your new job, I’d like it if you could come back here for a visit."_ His voice softened another few degrees. _"To say goodbye to all of us."_

Tears sprang into her eyes: tears of overwhelming gratefulness and humility. What did she ever do to deserve such consideration?

She had to work hard to speak coherently. "I... I will. Thank you, Mr. President. Thank you so very, very much. Not just for that offer, but for everything. For the most rewarding years I’ve ever known, for the opportunity to work for you, for the vision, for the dream, for the honor, for the privilege, for..." She just couldn’t express it all. "For _everything_."

_"Thank YOU, Donna."_ Bartlet sounded both touched by and uncomfortable with such effusiveness. _"For your unstinting service, and for your caring spirit."_

Praise... high praise, sincere praise, personal praise... from the President.

_"Now go see your family, embrace your future, and have a joyous Christmas."_ Politician or not, he never used the staid, politically correct salutations; he treated this festival like the holy day it was. _"We’ll see you sometime in the New Year."_

Suddenly, she felt that it would be a happier New Year than she’d dared hope.


	12. Sitting President, The 12

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 12:** _ZOEY BARTLET_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

‘Twas the night after Christmas, and all through the House...

The youngest of the First Daughters _was_ stirring, but among the First Family she appeared to be alone in this regard.

She wandered silently, aimlessly through the Residence, opening and closing doors as she went. Interior portals connected most of the private chambers; one could almost circle the entire second floor without having to resort to the central corridor. It increased the privacy level immensely. Except for the fact that each room had at least a few historical decorative items that technically did not belong to their tenants, and that the view from each window could not be duplicated or mistaken anywhere else in the world, one could pretend to be in just one more richly appointed home. Not a museum, or a fortress... or a government’s nerve center.

She passed through the kitchen, a very modest size considering the huge house that contained it, and a pale fraction of the sprawling galley downstairs, but just perfect to whip up infrequent meals for small groups of people. When one is catered to all year round by the finest service in the land, the temptation to dive into one’s own utensils and experiment with one’s favorite recipes can be compelling. Here the fixings for simple dishes and popular snacks were always available. First Families learned the hard way that insomnia tended to haunt these decorative walls, and munchies traditionally dogged sleepless footsteps.

She passed through the family dining room, with its magnificently detailed mural wallpaper and its long table that had easily accommodated the twelve of them. That table was strewn with the wreckage from supper, making her wonder what the public might say if they could see this –engraved silver flatware, specially ordered china with the Presidential Seal, delicately embossed crystal, all gorgeous, all very valuable... all smeared with leftovers and abandoned haphazardly just like any other family would do. But that, after all, was the purpose for which these items were made. It had taken her, Annie and their cousins over an hour to clean up after the big meal yesterday; no one had felt inclined to stage an encore tonight. In any event, housekeeping would be disappointed if they returned to work tomorrow and couldn’t find anything to do.

She passed through the Yellow Room (properly called the Upper Oval Room since it was the only ovoid chamber on this story), richly appointed like everywhere else around here, yet gently welcoming just the same. Its antique furniture and thick carpet displayed the predictable debris of wrapping paper and ribbons and cards and opened gifts that no Christmas could be without, destroying all comparison to a museum, making it _home_. The decorated New Hampshire fir stood to one side, its tinsel and its many-colored crystal ornaments glowing softly in the reduced light as though gathering every scrap of luminescence to itself.

She passed through the President’s private study, where every lamp had been switched off. Even so, in the filtered moonlight, it seemed to glow with a life of its own, and to breathe softly with the reassuring fragrances of paper and leather furniture and wood polish. It was the most understated room around, subdued and low on distractions, a place clearly designed for work. Yet those very qualities, that same atmosphere of vigilance and toil, also emphasized how much the business of the nation intruded upon its Chief Executive’s private time.

She detoured around the many spare bedrooms. Between its two upper floors, the White House could accommodate over a dozen guests at any one time without fear of crowding. Jonathan Bartlet, his wife Grace and their two children had retired long before this. So had Elizabeth Bartlet Weston, her husband Doug and _their_ two children. Eleanor Bartlet might still be up, either reading or working on her laptop, but Zoey did not wish to disturb her. Besides, she wanted the solitude. She wanted the soothing quiet of the late hours.

She didn’t go to her own room, either, despite that desire for solitude and quiet. Generous though it was in both size and comfort, tonight it felt confining. She wasn’t in the mood to turn in yet. She felt a strange urge to keep moving... as though to remain in one spot would allow her thoughts to catch up to her.

She ghosted into the West Sitting Hall, which her parents used as a sitting room. It was very similar to the East Sitting Hall at the opposite end of the House, rather more convenient, and surprisingly cozy. She had one moment to wonder why every lamp was still on this late... and then smiled at the reason: her mother, curled up in the largest armchair, head supported by one of its sweeping wings, eyeglasses hanging precariously on the tip of her nose, report open in her lap. Her eyes were closed, her hair drifting about her face.

Zoey dwelt on this for several seconds, marveling how the toughest woman around looked so vulnerable in sleep, just like anyone else. Even casual clothes couldn’t hide that First Lady graciousness or generosity – or the iron core. Now her youngest daughter found herself feeling strangely protective towards her mom, as though during this transitional period in their lives there had to be one family member awake and on guard at all times.

Actually, that might be quite an accurate assessment.

Zoey studied the cheerful blaze in the fireplace, decided that it would burn long enough to keep the room pleasantly warm awhile yet, and withdrew without a sound. Abbey hadn’t been getting much rest lately, and could use every minute of peace proffered.

Finally, coming here last of all, she eased open the door to her parents’ bedroom and peeked inside.

Across the expanse of carpet, past the moonbeams streaming through the tall, curtained windows, she could see the handsome king-sized bed used by Presidents past. She could just make out the form reposed upon it, motionless, dead to the world.

Shivering at her unconscious and unsettling choice of words, she crept closer until she was standing beside him.

Her father’s features were completely relaxed, his breathing deep and regular and unstrained. From the looks of things, he’d barely shifted since she checked on him last time, the blankets still tugged up close to his chin. In the dim light his hair appeared darker, his face less lined. Considering the hour, nothing about this scene seemed the slightest bit abnormal.

Quietly, Zoey settled herself into a convenient straight-back chair, not close enough to disturb him... and clung to that illusion of normalcy with all her strength. Perhaps here she could find some peace for herself.

If her mom was the strongest person she knew in terms of sheer will, her dad was the strongest in terms of concentrated energy. He shone the way Sirius stood out from Canis Major: all of the other stars were bright, sure – the brightest around, in fact, thereby giving shape to the constellation – but he was by far the most brilliant. Even if he’d never won an election in his life, he would have been no different.

Because he had won _every_ election, she now had to share him with the nation.

She was long used to seeing him in the papers and on TV, giving speeches, shaking hands with famous people, expressing political views, working on social projects... he’d been in some sort of public office since she’d been a toddler. But at first he was just one of four hundred and thirty-five members of Congress. After that, he was just one of fifty governors of state. Notable in itself... yet, in the eyes of most, not stunningly unique.

Now, there was literally no one in the country who could stand equal to him. Perhaps no one in the world.

Her father. The President of the United States. Even after seven years, that incredible fact could still sneak up and jab her hard in the stomach when she least expected it.

Her father. Paralyzed. Even after thirteen days, whenever she put those fateful words together in her mind, she started to shake.

The curious thing was, when she actually _saw_ him, his presence, his smile, the light in his eyes somehow eclipsed that condition, and she could handle it. But when he was absent, and she had leisure to compare his image now to what she recalled from every day of her waking memory before this month... that was when her foundations truly rocked.

And yet still he shone.

The Bartlet clan had come from all points divergent to celebrate the holiday together. That had, in fact, been their purpose all along, prior to the China trip and despite their patriarch’s morbid comparison to a deathbed vigil. His health only put point on the importance of this get-together – a point everyone did their level best to avoid mentioning aloud.

To the astonishment and delight of all, they had enjoyed a more ordinary Christmas Day than they’d dared hope. Well – ordinary enough, considering that they were celebrating in the White House... considering that one of them was the most powerful man in the world... considering that one of them had been thrown into a wheelchair less than two weeks prior.

Jed had made his views on this festive schedule very adamantly known. Usually the First Couple spent a more secluded Christmas at their home in Manchester, then returned to Washington for New Year’s; they always had to juggle the need for their own personal family time with the requirement to be on display for the people. The First Dad (Zoey and her sisters had invented that endearment after he first announced that he was going to run for President, complete with plans to maintain it even if he’d lost) reminded everyone that the farm would be logistical chaos for a chair, and refused to remodel the house or pave the lawn when all of this fuss over his mobility was so temporary. He’d impressed everyone with both his lack of self-consciousness on the topic and his utter conviction in the future.

No one opposed his decision. Uncle Jon and Aunt Grace planned to spend New Year’s with her family, and Liz and Doug would do the same with his family, thereby balancing all branches of the tree in equal measure. Ellie was leaving tomorrow to work on some urgent project back in Baltimore, but hoped she could return by week’s end. Zoey had no plans to go anywhere.

The problem with living at the number one address in the country was the countless ranks of staff included in the standard package. As considerate as ever, Jed literally shut down the House and gave time off to every single employee: the cleaners, the cooks, the domestics... the works. The only people he could _not_ dismiss were the divisions of both uniformed and plainclothes Secret Service; but they would have been on duty regardless, following the Bartlets wherever they went and securing 1600 even if it stood vacant. The cleaning could wait forty-eight hours. The personal service was neither needed nor wanted on this particular weekend. Food, on the other hand, was a bit harder to go without, for everyone upstairs _and_ down. This proved easier to solve than some people might have expected: sufficient grocery stores were ordered in advance and Abbey, Grace, Liz and Ellie happily cooked up a storm. Zoey had heard some agents comment about how they felt privileged and tickled to have the First Family serving _them_. It was one thing for America’s premier couple to prepare a private meal for relatives, close friends, or even other heads of state – such as when the Prime Minister of England visited during the government shutdown a couple of years ago – but for their own security forces? The four chefs had worked in shifts and drafted other Family members to shuttle platters downstairs, ensuring that everybody had enough. The guards on duty Saturday had probably never minded less having to give up their Christmas Day.

The virtual eviction of all staff had also included Curtis, who deserved his holiday no less. Between bouts of entertaining her young niece, younger nephew and older cousins, Zoey gained a fair bit of practice in (literally) pushing her father around... on those rare occasions when he permitted her or anyone else to do so.

Christmas Eve, unfortunately, had been marred by some serious executive fatigue. Jed met early with his senior staff, then arranged for a TV broadcast to the nation. It was not a Christmas message per se – that copyright had belonged to the British monarchy since the advent of radio – but rather the first time the people heard directly from their President since China. He kept it brief: just a holiday greeting from the Oval Office, an expression of thanks for the prayers and support that had poured in, and proof that he was still on the job, still _able_ to do the job. He’d looked totally natural, seated in an armchair rather than behind his desk so that no one could accuse him of hiding anything. They prudently taped it rather than run it live, and a good thing; he barely managed to hold off his cloying weariness long enough even at that early hour. The physiotherapy session afterwards wiped him out for the rest of the day.

He’d rallied enough for a late supper, though regrettably not enough to make a trip outside the White House for evening mass, and they all enjoyed a quiet, nostalgic evening. One tradition was not to be missed at any cost: sitting with Gus and Annie by the radio, as they had for each December 24th in their conscious memories, listening to the evening report of NORAD’s Santa-track across North America. Jed maintained a convincing belief for his grandson’s sake, which made it even funnier; he’d been to Cheyenne himself, you know, and how many other listeners could say the same? Zoey smiled at the memory of Gus’s innocent delight and everyone else’s amusement that the highest-security installation on the continent and all its military brass continued to play this farce every year. The official line was that, since NORAD had to track all air traffic in Canadian and U.S. airspace, they sent up CF-18 jets every Christmas Eve to escort Santa’s sleigh safely back to the North Pole. They’d been performing this service for fifty years now, making adults chuckle as much as they made children excited. This time even the International Space Station got into the surveillance, and kids around the world could tune in or go online to see exactly where Santa was so that they knew when they had to be in bed. The officers always sounded dead serious over the airwaves. Their jobs were so critical to national security and world stability that they probably leapt at this bit of annual fun.

And their best reward was right here: an awed child, and a relaxing President.

Reality check: all the top-secret security and authority of NORAD answered to Zoey’s goofy, trivia-full, caring, lovable father. Whoa.

Said father pushed himself hard to keep Christmas Day happy for everyone. Watching over him now, Zoey recalled the high entertainment of seeing her dad and her nephew cruise down the hall together, eight-year-old Gus sitting in his grandfather’s lap and trying vainly to wheel the chair himself. The boy had adapted to that conveyance faster than anyone else, blissfully unaware of the downside and seeing only the special properties it provided for play. Zoey had also witnessed – accidentally – a more private moment between her parents when Jed offered to take Abbey for a ride next, using a far different tone and implication. "You haven’t done it yet until you’ve done it in a chair," he boasted. Any hope that he’d been referring to the mundane details of daily life was erased one moment later: "And you can jump me anytime now and not worry about us falling over." To everyone at large he’d stated with surprising brightness how cool the world looked from only four feet high. That opened wide the door for a fresh, merry run of height jokes.

A sense of unreality kept cropping up, brought on by so many normal events that the chair didn’t affect at all. They sat around the family tree (smaller, far less ornate and much more personal than the official décor downstairs); they exchanged gifts, they played board games and card games, they watched seasonal movies on their own TV. They shared the full dinner with all the fixings; Jed bypassed one small problem here and graciously handed over the honor of carving the turkey to his brother, since it simply couldn’t be done sitting down. Zoey had used her new digital camera to take a photo of her dad cheerfully wearing Annie’s gift: a bright red sweatshirt with green holly and white snowflakes, and the proud legend: "Recycle Mistletoe – Give Kisses All Year!" God forbid that the picture should sneak out to the papers, but she did have some playful thoughts on future potential for blackmail...

Abbey’s gift had been too big to wrap: a hot tub that would be installed in the Residence early next week. It was an inexpensive and effective means to relax, a means she said she should’ve thought of years before. Most important, it would be a big help to her husband’s recovery, in particular to ease any spastic leg muscles. Jed loved the idea so much that he offered to pitch in on the cost and then take it with them at the end of his term.

However, none of them could escape the lingering shadows for long. Jed was visibly better now than when he’d returned home a week ago, but he still tired quickly. Abbey had issued clear instructions in advance that only she would decree rest times, so as not to create the impression that they were all ganging up on him. Also, for this weekend she claimed exclusive access to providing any physical aid her husband might need; the assigned orderly had been given his Christmas marching orders as well. Everything had been arranged so that Jed could manage alone in the washroom most of the time, although baths, dressing and chair transfers were still impossible unassisted.

Otherwise, the First Dad’s attitude was positive to the extreme. He overrode all expressions of concern and refused to let any of his family feel sorry for him. They had been warned ages ago that something like this might happen, he pronounced, and now that it finally had it was no big thing. It would be dealt with on its own terms, and it would be over before they knew it. Of course, unlike the original revelation of the MS, which at the time had been invisible and entirely likely not to progress at that point, this was a _very_ visible condition. The chair just didn’t go away.

The medical/security bracelet did, though, at least most of the time. Jed left it off whenever he could, protesting that with everyone constantly around him he was perfectly safe. Zoey teased him once, gently, about having been issued his own panic button. The horrid memory of her abduction would never entirely fade, but she and her family had reached the stage where they could at least talk about it, and she found both humor and comfort in pointing out that the shoe was on the other foot now: she needed to keep an eye on _him_.

Seated here in this darkened bedroom, Zoey was unable to stop herself from worrying. She really _did_ need to keep an eye on him. He had been totally flattened by an overwhelming exhaustion today. He’d woken only occasionally, and could barely get out of bed even with help. Most likely it had been the delayed reaction from his Christmas exertions, and he declared it a fair trade for the joy of that day with his loved ones. The rest of them agreed to some extent, but they ached to see the price exacted, and his absence from their gatherings screamed out against the unfairness of it all.

With her husband down for the count, Abbey had made the most productive use of her time by spending today in the public eye. As much as she too wanted to watch over him, she couldn’t chain herself indoors; it fell to her to continue the endless round of appearances and engagements that being the First Couple demanded, no matter what complications – official or personal – beset them. All overnight trips had been vetoed until further notice, and no one could really complain about that... but rest assured someone _would_ complain if the fully healthy half of the nation’s principal representatives didn’t make _some_ effort towards humoring the people. Zoey was no stranger to these requirements herself, and had encouraged her mother to step out – as much to give herself a break as to fulfill her obligations. Surely three First Daughters could take up some of the slack.

Perhaps they could more often than not, but Zoey gave thanks with every breath that her mom had come home in time to head off the crisis of the weekend. One thing that her father had steadfastly resisted, after his first day or so home from China, was any impulse to give in to depression. He’d lasted all week without the least hint of any bitterness, accepting each adaptation and each restriction to his new life – no matter how temporary _or_ long-term – and staying so upbeat that he lulled everyone into a false sense of security. Including, quite possibly, himself. One can convince oneself, even fool oneself, if one tries hard enough. However, the façade will last only so long.

What exactly triggered it, Zoey didn’t know, and she wasn’t about to ask. Abbey had arrived home well after supper, and gone straight to the bedroom, no doubt planning to regale her husband with the successes of the day. Fortuitously, she’d coincided with one of his wakening windows. Maybe it was something as straightforward as seeing his wife get around effortlessly, interacting with the public the way he loved to do, assuming a big portion of his job because _he_ couldn’t do it... With no warning, Jed erupted into a five-minute rage that Zoey couldn’t help but overhear even from two rooms away. The gist of it wasn’t self-pity so much as self-disgust at how slowly he was healing, so much slower than he wanted, which further impacted upon his work and his quality of life. Anyone would feel an intense frustration at being prevented from doing what they really wanted to do, whether because of a horrible fatigue or a general sense of being unwell, but Zoey couldn’t remember a previous time when her father sounded mad enough to throw something.

Temper was nothing new to any member of the First Family, but it _never_ ran to violence. Even as he accepted responsibility for passing down the fiery gene, Jed had impressed upon each of his children that aggression was an unpardonable offence. Tonight, though, for the first time ever, Zoey wondered anxiously if he was about to break his own ironclad rule. She waited out the explosion, and the teeth-grinding quiet that followed, until she couldn’t bear it any longer and had to peek in. Of course she knew her mother would make sure her father didn’t hurt himself... but the quaking silence afterwards was unbearable. One glance told the story: Jed with rumpled hair, sweat-streaked forehead, tense jaw and narrowed eyes, the very epitome of helpless fury. Seated close beside him, the epitome of patient understanding, Abbey just held her peace and waited, confident that he’d soon cool down and be rational again. It was a confidence Zoey envied.

At that moment her father saw her; his bed faced her doorway, and she was frozen in place. He might have been too incensed to respond to his wife’s steady calm, but the fear his daughter wore packed a whole different wallop. And it _was_ fear. Fear that he was giving up, that this disease really was _changing_ him. His simmering anger fled in an instant and he invited her into a hug... and right then he promised her that he would do his very best never to surrender to the demons of doubt ever again.

This incident bore a fair resemblance to an exorcism. Everyone in the family felt tangibly better. In a way, they’d all been waiting for something to crack. Now at last it had, which placed it squarely in the open and free to be acknowledged. Having thus purged his system, perhaps now Jed could heal a bit faster. Certainly his mental state improved for the rest of the evening, brought on by the never-doubted yet even more openly demonstrated support of his loved ones. If he needed to vent his feelings again in the future, they welcomed it – it’d be better than bottling it up. They were there for him, through thick and thin, every step of the way.

Watching her father sleep now, quietly and restfully, Zoey discovered that she had released most of her tension from this evening as well. He was surrounded by love... and, she suddenly remembered, not just _her_ love. Not just her mother’s love and her sisters’ love. Not just the love of his relatives, absolutely essential though it be. Many others would claim to love him as well, and rightly so. And he needed _all_ of this love.

His entire staff stood unflinchingly behind him. There could be not the slightest doubt as to how deeply they cared for him and how thoroughly they looked out for him. They toiled long and hard in their offices with no thought of reward or even praise, asking only that they do all they could to make their boss’s burden easier. For that alone, the Bartlets would never be able to thank them enough.

Old friends from the pre-White House era, and newer friends as well, had written or phoned, though they hadn’t visited out of consideration for his fluctuating energy levels. Most politicians had set aside standard frictions and feuds, wanting to know how he was doing for _his_ sake, not theirs. Yes, legislative agendas continued for all of them, but this medical setback sure helped to put everything in perspective. Regardless of conflicts in policy or interest, they too were human, and capable of respect and loyalty.

The country also qualified, if it could be thought of as a single organism. Out there in every state of the Union were people whom they did not know, people who did not really know them, yet people who voted for and believed in and followed their President. People who sent their best wishes, knowing their names meant nothing, knowing their encouragement meant everything. People who didn’t need to even meet him in order to like him, and be concerned for him.

It seemed there were one or two advantages to being the national leader after all.

Surely this had been the most extraordinary Christmas for the First Family, with the wildest swings of emotions ever. It even beat their very first December in the White House – that one had been permeated exclusively with joy, whereas this ran the gauntlet from joy to discomfort to worry to depression and back again. But at least it had ended on the up-note...

And something else: a subtle yet distinct air of triumph. The President of the United States, a man under constant attack from political and social and media and fanatical enemies, was facing the most insidious adversary of all... and slowly overcoming it. This beat out Congress and a hostile press and threats of war and economic instability and personal danger. This was a battle fought within himself, against himself.

If he could surmount _this_ challenge, then he could do _anything_.


	13. Sitting President, The 13

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 13:** _MATT SANTOS_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

Sooner or later, there comes a moment in life when the road forks up ahead and a choice must be made. A choice which will define the course of that life to come. A choice which can reach beyond that life to affect untold others.

Any person in this kind of situation will be wise to think long and hard before making such a momentous decision. Sometimes the verdict will be reached joyfully, confident that there is no other course of action worth considering. Sometimes it will come with great reluctance, driven to an extremity very much against the individual’s will. And sometimes it will be balanced so perfectly between these two poles that each option is equally valid, thereby making the final assessment even harder.

The Democratic Congressman from Houston wondered which category best described his fledgling run for President. Honestly, he could see elements of all three.

He sat in a simple folding chair, alone in his new headquarters, surrounded by the infant beginnings of a campaign that was months and poll numbers and thousands of dollars behind the two frontrunners. His bid was so young, his candidacy so unanticipated, his platform so untried, that he still had one more day or so before his new campaign manager took the reins and things really geared up: before the cameras started poking into his face and the hard questions started ambushing his appearances. He was free to spend this unscheduled prelude as he saw fit, on the eve of inaugurating a frenzy of tightly orchestrated activity that – if he was good _and_ lucky – would not cease for eleven months. He was at liberty, for the moment, to explore his own thoughts without his every move and expression being watched and evaluated. He was permitted the private time every starting candidate needs: to be unquestionably honest with himself and ask, _Do I really want this?_

Josh Lyman thought he was worthy.

Most of the country thought he was crazy.

His wife thought he was both.

That just about summed up his feelings and his dilemma perfectly.

A guy had walked into his house and flung him a challenge, believing that he was up to it. Thus did the crossroads appear before him, with no warning whatsoever. On the one hand, retirement from Congress and a new life working in the community of his district. On the other... _surpassing_ Congress, and a new life working for all the communities of his nation.

He thought about it, and talked about it, and finally he bowed to the trust others had in him. He accepted the dare. He filed his name. He couldn’t back out gracefully now. But there was always time to revisit this decision... to ponder, to second-guess, to explore uncertainties.

Had he made the right choice? Was he prepared to place himself and his entire family in the merciless spotlight of _real_ federal politics, far worse than even the most vociferous members of Congress ever knew? Was he willing to have every aspect of his life dissected by the media, every mistake he’d ever made and ever will make dragged before the public eye? Was he braced for the certain political attacks, and the possible _physical_ attacks?

Helen was justifiably angry at him for even contemplating such a move, _any_ move that would completely uproot their comfortable life here, much less a move that presented the least breath of danger to their two children. She was also terribly proud that a virtual stranger saw the true quality he possessed. They’d discussed it long and hard, dissecting every angle, trying to anticipate every problem and every adjustment they’d have to face. Together, they’re reached one conclusion from which there was no escape.

If he refused to try, if he insisted that the virtues seen in him by others did not in fact exist, or were insufficient to the task... then he was not being true to himself.

Rejection of this path would promise reduced stress, reduced invasion of privacy, reduced risk. It would also haunt him for the rest of his life. _What if he had?_

If he ran and lost... at least he’d have stood by his true character and not hidden his strengths from the world. Some good might come out of that in itself; at the very least, people would admit that he’d been prepared to serve them on an even grander and more selfless scale than he had already. They might also pay more attention to his local endeavors as a result.

If he ran and won... then he would have to be ready to give every last thing he had in exchange for fulfilling his promises and his purpose. There would be no middle road.

He had to be prepared to lose. He had to be determined to win.

He gazed upon this crossroads, now in his wake, the other road still visible yet quite inaccessible, silently mocking him as he watched it recede. And he tried to guess, imagining himself looking back on all this from a year or a decade hence, which fork would turn out to have been the better option. He ached for one glimpse into that future, just enough to see whether he was embarking on the kind of gutsy adventure that history books immortalized... or whether he was wasting his time, delaying his _real_ work, putting himself and his family through a totally needless strain.

Truthfully, that desire for local politics only wasn’t forever removed from his grasp after all. If he lost the nomination, or the election, he could go back to it. Hell, if he _did_ reach the White House, he might be able to revisit The Road Not Taken after his term ended.

Assuming his term did not end in disgrace. Assuming his term did not end in death.

_Not_ going to happen. He had to face these unenviable possibilities only so that he could dismiss them. The ultimate dream presented to every American boy had, without any of the expected years of consideration or intent, suddenly become _his_ dream.

Silent, alone, he watched the flickering screen of a small television set. This was the closest he could come to that coveted glimpse of what the future just might hold for him. The news stations were running live coverage of a public event at the Hay-Adams Hotel in downtown Washington. The date: the Tuesday after Christmas. The big draw: an appearance by the man whom Matt Santos hoped one day to replace.

The TV announcer reported the details with the usual unemotional efficiency. _"According to reports, every single troop of the Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts in Washington, D.C. are represented here today. They chose today to kick off this special initiative since school won’t resume until next week, which makes such a large turnout much easier."_

The exterior of the historic hotel appeared on screen, its pale Italian-Renaissance beauty with Corinthian columns and elaborate portico a sharp contrast to the steel-rod traffic barriers that kept the general public on the sidewalk. Police and Secret Service agents patrolled the pavement; squad cars restricted access to all of H Street. The press corps was corralled in a tight knot almost directly opposite the hotel’s main entrance.

"We still don’t know exactly who started it, but the official version is that one of the young Scouts themselves proposed the idea: a citywide sponsorship appeal to raise funds that will provide special assistance for children with various illnesses confining them to wheelchairs. It’s a project that will certainly help many handicapped young students... and there are high hopes that it will be taken up by other cities across the country."

A steady stream of youngsters in scouting uniforms, with their troop leaders, were allowed past the ropes and paraded before the single camera lens. Most of them shot anxious glances at the gathered public, as though wondering why they got to enter when everyone else didn’t, before disappearing through the stately double doors.

"Such initiatives are certainly not unique to the Scouts. However, we can make a safe guess as to what inspired the timing and the sheer scope of this one. It’s an even safer guess that President Bartlet has taken a special interest in the project." Surprisingly, the news anchor didn’t go into details. They were capable of discretion after all.

The interior camera panned over the hotel’s largest room, its snow-white splendor enhanced by gold gilt and crystal chandeliers. It was a scene better fit for elegant meals and formal balls than the swarms of children darting about and chattering irrepressibly away. The troop leaders were having a time trying to get them seated and _keep_ them seated.

"The President was invited to attend this event, but until this morning no one knew for sure if he’d be able to make it. However, according to a White House statement not long ago, he will be present. The Hay-Adams was probably chosen as the venue due to its convenient location just two blocks from the White House."

Another exterior camera that must have been mounted on the roof of Decatur House across the street took over the broadcast and swung slowly from its excellent elevated view of the hotel, showing both the crowds gathered and the security forces on alert, then brushed across the snow-dusted, winter-denuded forest of Lafayette Square, until it framed the shining whiteness of the foremost address in the country.

_"And there’s the motorcade! The President is on his way!"_

The camera zoomed in on the long line of black vehicles, flanked fore and aft by police sedans and motorcycles, as it exited the gates of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue and snaked up 17th Street. Even from this distance and with tree branches in the way, the central limousines could clearly be seen.

Santos’ jaw tightened in sympathy. A twenty-vehicle parade to transport one man two medium-sized city blocks. It seemed totally ridiculous, but no one had any real choice. If the President were physically able to walk, and if it were milder weather (or perhaps even if it weren’t), he would have just strolled over. Or at least he would have tried, although the Secret Service might have had things to say about that. No way could he have _rolled_ over; a wheelchair is just not suited for possible fast action on open streets where tight security is almost impossible, should something happen.

Another point: he wanted to be seen by the public, chair or no chair, to prove that he was alive and (reasonably) well... but being bundled up in a heavy overcoat against the late December chill would make him look even more infirm. This was no time for him to indulge that famous New Hampshire disregard for cold temperatures; his body had battles enough to fight already without adding flu to the catalog.

The coverage tracked the motorcade around the corner of H Street and right up to the hotel’s front door. Then, rather than linger for every second of footage possible, the TV suddenly switched back to its interior views.

The announcer did not explain why, but viewers could deduce that the White House had forbidden stations to broadcast images of the President being helped out of his limo. If so, it was a completely understandable request: lifting anyone from a car into a chair is an awkward maneuver and not a very dignified one. The Man could be forgiven for not wanting that particular side of him splashed across the nation’s cable stations and papers; he was being forthcoming enough already for one day. Also, such a pointless yet juicy photo would detract from the real event indoors, where everyone’s attention should be focused instead.

The amazing thing was that the media had agreed to comply. Then again, there had to be a _few_ honorable members among them. As a precaution, both official and unofficial shutterbugs gathered outside would find the limo itself in their way as their leader exited on its other side, right in front of the main entrance.

The news had obviously circulated within that the guest of honor was right outside; the excitement climbed even as the last of the children found their seats and the noise level dropped in anticipation. Row upon row of eager faces watched the stage, their outfits dividing the room into patches of solid color. Uniformed leaders and black-suited bodyguards flanked the walls, providing two dissimilar yet complimentary kinds of order.

Santos shifted in his chair, feeling a touch of that excitement himself. Today was only the second time the President had appeared in public since China, the other being the tree-lighting last week. But then, this would be a close-up. Besides, people tended to get keyed up around their national leader even if there were no health concerns at all.

That raised another question: would there come a day when they’d be just as excited to see _him?_

If Josh was willing to leave the White House, an impressive career, and the man he had served well and been unquestionably loyal to for eight years, to run the campaign of Houston’s little boy Matthew... then Josh must really believe that Matt had something others simply didn’t. Something crucial to the race. He believed not only that Congressman Santos could do the job, but that he _should_ do it.

Huge expectations. Scary enterprise. Humbling respect.

Without Josh’s suggestion, Santos would never have considered it. Without Josh’s help, Santos would not have bothered to try it. He hadn’t yet decided whether he should be pleased that Josh had convinced him he _could_ , or angry that Josh had infected him with the idea in the first place.

Could he beat both the Vice President and the _former_ Vice President? Russell played things way too safe to be an effective leader when national security hung in the balance. Hoynes had the dynamic character and the greater experience, but for traditionalists that sex scandal just might sink his ship. If sufficient votes were divided between them, a dark horse with integrity and daring might slip right down the middle and take the lead.

Could he beat the Republicans? It would certainly be a battle and a half. Arnie Vinick was one of the smartest and most honest guys around, irrespective of affiliation. Many voters would say that only the President himself was an equal in quality.

And how, at the end of the day, would Matt Santos measure up to Jed Bartlet? Not too unfavorably, according to Josh, which made for a heady compliment. Still...

He didn’t plan to make the President his role model. He would run his campaign his way on his terms, and if he won he’d lead in the same manner. He’d make his own mistakes and learn from them, and use whatever methods he deemed best, even if the previous administration had done it differently. He would build on a good foundation, true – but the foundation supports the building; it doesn’t define every aspect of it.

On the other hand, he had a very good example to point the way through the minefields ahead, and only a vain man or a stupid one would refuse the guidance of the wise who had gone before.

_"And now, the President of the United States!"_

Santos snapped out of his musings and refocused on the TV, just as the opening bars of "Ruffles and Flourishes: Hail to the Chief" floated through the ballroom and everyone rose to their feet.

There he was: no taller in height than many of the gathered children due to his seated posture, yet instantly the center of attention. He entered through a side arch nearest the ramp up to the stage, an arch upon which every light in the place appeared to be aimed. He wore a three-piece suit, as had been his wont of late, and a typically bright tie. He rode in a wheelchair that, except for being black rather than the usual battleship gray, seemed no different than any other chair at any hospital. He was propelled gently along by a veritable Hercules who looked strong enough to pick him right up and carry him. He was preceded and followed by Secret Service agents, lots of them, yet no more than usual, and his wife walked alongside, for once the taller, holding his hand in the most natural way imaginable. He smiled and waved as though nothing at all could be wrong with this picture.

The applause and cheers drowned out the music completely. Some of those cheers might well be spawned by sympathy as much as anything else, but it mattered not. He had come, despite his fatiguing illness and his hectic schedule and his ever-present safety complications. He had made it – for them.

Watching this, Santos shook his head in frank admiration. The Man appeared quite well on camera, but that could be deceptive. The drive alone must’ve been tiring, with all its seating transfers. One might wonder at his stamina, at his dedication... though not at his motive. He didn’t want to disappoint the kids, of course, but he needed to be here for himself as well. To prove to his audience, the nation and the world that he was on the job.

As they positioned him on the stage, as the cameras closed in, as the cheers just kept coming, one might also wonder at his impression of comfort towards how everyone now saw him. One might think, from his relaxed air and casual waves, that he had been without the use of his legs for years. Not only had he accepted it, at least for the present, but he clearly wanted everyone else to accept it as well.

Back in the reign of the second Roosevelt, Americans knew that their President needed a wheelchair. Even though they saw him almost exclusively in a regular chair or in a car, his condition could never have been fully hidden. However, the White House went out of its way to minimize it, to not remind the public of it, to avoid displaying it in any way. In general they were fairly successful. It simply didn’t come up. For most of his stay in office FDR appeared remarkably healthy otherwise, and right to the end he remained very much in control. People were willing to overlook, even to forget. Your leader might be unable to walk without aid, but that didn’t make him any less your leader.

Perhaps realizing that concealment would be even less possible in this very different age of television, media coverage and media intrusion – as well as the greater controversy over his fitness for office – Bartlet had chosen a different route. He didn’t even attempt any subterfuge; besides, he’d done that once before already. His approach this time was simple and straightforward: get the truth out there at once, and face it. Everyone expected the visual, so there was no sense in trying to mask it. Instead, he wanted to show how he surmounted the problem, rather than pretend that the problem didn’t exist. He might have said: _It’s here, it’s real, it’s temporary. You know about it, no point in hiding it, be mature about it. I’m doing fine, let’s all move on, we’ve got more important things to worry about._

He’d probably prefer to dodge every comparison to Roosevelt that he could, but comparisons were inevitable anyway. He did possess one advantage over his esteemed predecessor, though: he had every chance of walking again. Letting the public not only see the chair but also follow his progress as he gradually needed it less was a calculated risk.

There _was_ a risk, political and social, in such a course of action. Would it develop that the only thing the people remembered about this period in his life was his physical infirmity? Would the policies of the President be eclipsed by the far more dramatic and interesting fact that the President needed a chair? Would the hard work of his entire administration receive none of the public attention it deserved while the media focused on his delicate health?

There was another risk, too: that people might accuse him of the exact opposite extremism. Of flaunting his new disability, of milking it, of trying to squeeze column inches and political deals out of the people’s sympathy. Of making it impossible to say no to him without coming across as insensitive. Of making himself out to be a hero.

He was plainly prepared to take both risks. He still had his job to do, regardless of the obstacles and the opposition. Let everyone see him attending functions and tackling problems _despite_ the chair, rather than hiding in the White House _because_ of the chair. Let everyone see him resume his duties and accomplish his executive agenda with no reference at all to the chair. Let everyone join him in accepting the facts and getting past them.

This advice could be applied to the public, the White House staff... and The Man himself. He above all else would be least likely to forget, even for a moment.

Maybe so, but there was no great sense of unreality here now. He gave every evidence of thoroughly enjoying himself today, and wanting everyone else to enjoy themselves as well. His physical situation had nothing to do with any of this.

Well, almost nothing. When the Master of Ceremonies finally managed to be heard over the noise, and began the usual formal welcome, he couldn’t get away from admitting that one prominent catalyst for this ambitious "Kids on Wheels Scout Drive" was the President’s recent need for a chair himself. The speaker must have cleared this speech well in advance with someone pretty high up; he succeeded in covering all the salient points without one indelicate reference.

Then it was Bartlet’s turn. Since he couldn’t step up to the podium, they’d arranged for a wireless handheld microphone.

"I’m delighted to be here with you all today, and to contribute to such a marvelous project in whatever minor way I can." Laughter rippled; _nothing_ he did was minor these days. It also made everyone feel better that he could refer so lightheartedly to his current disability. Whereas he fully expected to recover when many other sufferers never would, it still put a substantial strain on his very demanding job.

"My wife has graciously allowed me to speak for her as well today." The glint in his vision grew brighter. "You know, I’ve always said I look up to her, but at least now she knows I mean it." The cameras caught Abbey’s eye-roll.

As the amusement lingered, he surveyed the crowd spread out before him, obviously looking for something specific.

"You, there – the young lady on the far left end of the first row."

All cameras instantly converged on the Girl Scout so identified. She looked delighted to be noticed, and _terrified_ to be noticed.

The President gave her his avuncular smile. "Don’t be afraid. I’d like you to do me a favor. Is that okay?"

She nodded slowly, unconvincingly, having no idea what he wanted. From the glances back and forth across the stage, neither did anyone else.

"Good. I want you to go to the vase on the table to your left. I want you to pick out the reddest flower you can find, and I want you to bring it up here to me."

Necks craned and voices whispered as the youngster nervously complied. Fortunately, one of her troop leaders was close by and could help her out. She hesitated before ascending the steps, long-stemmed blossom in her grasp, but Bartlet offered another reassuring smile and stretched out his hand encouragingly. Finally she stood right before him, in full view to _everyone_.

He placed the microphone across his lap, but it still picked up his voice. "You see the neat thing about a chair like this: we’re the same size!" She giggled; so did a lot of other people. It did make him a bit less imposing to her. "What’s your name?"

"Annie," she admitted shyly. The mike picked that up as well, and the cameras caught her uneasiness about the brilliant lights and the whole media coverage aimed at _her_.

He focused entirely on her, helping her to look at _him_ and forget all the other distractions. "Anne." By dropping the diminutive, he made her feel a whole lot more grown up. "I want to thank you very much. You’ve been a big help to me." He received the flower, and shook her little hand as though she was a princess.

As she left the stage, and as the crowd murmured its interest and wonder, he studied the fiery red petals for a thoughtful moment. Then he turned to his right... and with a tip of his head and a rakish grin, he presented this lovely carnation to his wife.

Abbey _might_ have been a consummate actress who had somehow seen this sweet gesture coming and didn’t want to let on, but how many women expect their men to make such a public token in such charming style? She rose from her own seat to one side and accepted the blossom with evident delight. For a few seconds ignoring the cameras and the laughing, cheering crowd, the First Couple traded a very special glance. Then she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. Cameras flashed at _her_ gesture, at her considerate rubout of any lipstick traces afterward, and at his beatific smile.

Having thus ensured her forgiveness of any jokes at her expense, Bartlet retrieved the mike and launched into his actual speech, brief yet enthusiastic, praising the children for their compassion, assuring them that when they put their collective minds towards a common goal they could do _anything_ , and telling all kids on wheels out there to strive for their very highest dreams no matter what. He didn’t read any notes, the words flowing without effort. He didn’t say one thing about himself. He made his point loud and clear.

When he finished, he yielded up the mike and sat back with the air of a man who had accomplished what he came to do. Not just for the children before him, either... but for all people watching long-distance, and for all people who would read about this tomorrow.

The MC stepped up again as the cheers finally faded. "Now, everyone, please stand for our National Anth –"

He bit off his words abruptly, and there was an awful silence.

Every pair of eyes hit the President with a slap. More than one face flamed in mortification. Even the TV announcer couldn’t say a word.

Santos cringed. And things had been going so well...

In retrospect, it wasn’t so strange that no one might have thought of this beforehand. The National Anthem was always played when the President attended a function. That was such a given, and everyone standing for it was such an automatic assumption, that the matter simply never came up for discussion or even reflection. Until now... a bit late in the party.

The only person who didn’t look bothered was Jed Bartlet himself. His eyebrows rose for a moment... then his mouth firmed and he gave a simple nod, as though determining his plan of action. Turning as much in his chair as he could, he tossed a hand signal to the young man standing in the back: the one who had provided his propulsion earlier.

Even as that colossus approached, the First Lady came over to her husband and placed a hand on his shoulder, in concern or in restraint – or probably both. She said something that no one heard who wasn’t on the stage, but her meaning could certainly be guessed. His counter was short. Her retaliation was even shorter. Nobody needed the sound system to interpret his fierce reply: something along the lines of " _I am NOT sitting through ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’!"_

The silence in the room remained unbroken, in fascinated curiosity at what would happen next.

Abbey surrendered, perhaps as much out of reluctance to make a scene as to not deny him this preference. The President sat stoically while his aide placed his feet on the floor, an uncomplicated process that gave the illusion of taking far longer than it should... then extended one arm to him and the other to his wife and allowed them to help him rise.

It seemed that every person present held their collective breath.

He barely wavered, supported on both sides. Satisfied with that achievement, he extricated his right arm from Abbey’s grasp and then offered it back to her, elbow crooked, the way a gentleman would offer to escort a lady to the dance. She flickered a grin and accepted, holding on with both hands, providing the stability he needed. Having ascertained that, he nodded to his aide, who let go entirely and withdrew, drawing the chair away.

A universal exhalation rolled throughout the ballroom at this sight: their First Couple standing together, before the nation, arm in arm.

Their _President_ standing, strong and sure.

Then Bartlet nodded calmly to the flustered MC.

"Uh... ladies and gentlemen, our National Anthem."

And the people rose, and the music began to play.

Santos found himself on his feet as well, there in his campaign headquarters, alone and unobserved, without having made any conscious decision to stand. He well understood how much such a simple gesture meant to Bartlet at this moment. He applauded the President for finding the fortitude to admit his need for assistance, and risk a chance of falling – which would mean both injury and embarrassment – for the sake of that anthem. And he wondered if he himself would have been able to do the same with such a handicap.

He hoped so. You should always give respect where due – not just to that song, but to the country it represented. The _whole_ country, even though at times a considerable chunk of its population might be lined up against you. Because the country came first.

Now _that_ was a reason to run.


	14. Sitting President, The 14

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 14:** _DEBBIE FIDERER_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

There’s one extraordinary side-effect to securing a job in the White House, not dissimilar to winning a large lottery: all of a sudden, one’s friends increase in number, and they’re not shy in spelling out all the ways they need a little bit of help. Not a _lot_ of help – and certainly not too much for someone who now has direct access to such power.

As a result, the personal secretary to the President of the United States told almost no one exactly what position she held, or just who her boss happened to be. She was, she would say, only a cog in the huge machinery of government. She’d point out that she was one amongst thousands, and pretty far down the ladder at that. She’d state clearly to the more persistent supplicants that her word address might be 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, but that did not grant her the magical ability to solve their problems, or the clearance to bring said problems into the Oval Office itself. They’d just have to take it up with their individual Congressperson, or else handle it themselves like everyone else.

The price of her piece of mind, and of not fostering others’ totally unrealistic hopes, and of complying with certain security requirements as well, was the inability to boast about the fact that her desk sat immediately outside that ovoid office, that she did (in a very real sense) have access to such power, that she could (theoretically) bring special problems before her boss, who possessed (it was by and large assumed) the superhuman ability to resolve anything.

The White House, being what it is, does tend to confer upon its lowliest employees rather more local prestige than is justifiably their due. However, there is a second peculiar side-effect to this unique address... one that bypasses the smaller members and impacts only upon the senior management. Just as the President’s presence often blinds the public to those people who stand near him, so the President’s shadow often prevents the public from noticing those people who work hard for him. Bills through Congress and summits with other world leaders cannot possibly be done by one person alone, and yet one person almost always gets all the credit and all the attention.

Surely this was nowhere as evident as in Oval Office reception. Just getting as far as that special antechamber, so close to The Man already, could be a real feat. Some people became too awed by their surroundings to notice anything or any _one_ else around them. Some others were too conscious of their own importance to pay much mind to a mere receptionist. They’d earned the right to come here and they weren’t about to be questioned by anyone! It was even more obvious over the phone, since not many folks outside the upper echelons of federal government knew that restricted number, much less dared to use it. When they did call, they were in no doubt whatsoever about the validity of their message or their request, and having to go though a lowly intermediary was one more delay they didn’t need. Quite often they saw the executive secretary as the last obstruction between them and their right to deal personally with the leader of the free world.

By now Debbie had resigned herself to being treated intermittently as less than human, nameless, devoid of personality, a voice on the phone or a face at a desk, not quite existing on the same plane. She rarely gave her own name in either case; visitors and callers cared only that she sat outside that Office, and that she had better do her job and wave them through at once. Perhaps this attitude made her task somewhat easier, since people were less likely to notice her and therefore blow her cover, but it did her ego no favors and it chafed her vibrant persona. Fortunately, the White House support staff’s acceptance of her among their ranks, the respect shown by the more senior employees, and – worth any neglect by the public – the banter with her slightly amazing boss made up for that, and surpassed it.

Another unparalleled bonus was being able to say into the phone, "Oval Office." There was, after all, only _one_. When she phoned out, the astonishment and delight frequently resounding on the other end would be hard to beat.

Although working anywhere in this building, no matter how humble a position, could and often did infect its employees with an inflated sense of personal magnitude ("White House-itis," they called it), the arrogance was always tempered by the patriotism. Going one step further, for every single staff member who worked in close proximity to the President, the patriotism was supplemented by genuine devotion. They had been bitten by an altogether different bug, a compulsion far more selfless: the unimpeachable desire to protect him – beyond the call of duty, at all costs, from everything. They watched over his schedule, trying to keep him from falling behind during the day and from staying up too late at night. They watched over his political agenda, wrangling with obstinate Congresspeople and aggressive special interest groups to help accomplish the promised mandates. They watched over his public image, smacking down muckrakers who hated him, laboring to back up the deals he wanted and putting the most positive spin possible on the deals he lost. They watched over his eating habits, which were too easy to neglect given the punishing hours to his day. They watched over his general health, even leaving aside the MS complications.

They even watched over his physical safety – as though, when they joined his public entourage, every staff member became an auxiliary member of the Secret Service. Technically, they were supposed to do no such thing; none of them had that professional training. Practically, they couldn’t expect to offer anything that the finest bodyguards weren’t already. Theoretically, though, they knew that there was always the minuscule chance of spotting something tiny, something innocent, something that could make a world of difference.

He was their President. Their boss. He belonged to them, and they to him. He required their best. They needed _his_ best. He kept them working hard; they kept him from working _too_ hard.

Name one other person with such dedicated and loyal employees.

This protective vein – nay, a pulmonary artery that ran straight through the West Wing – had not surprisingly become even stronger of late. Their leader was entitled to time alone, whether at his desk or in the Residence, but no one else felt anywhere near as comfortable with the arrangement. Debbie made sure that, whenever he occupied his office, either she or Curtis sat right outside at all times, ready to respond to a situation at a moment’s notice. Even the agents ever present in the corridor couldn’t completely override such a personal commitment.

The problem with trying to subtly watch over a very intelligent subject is that the subject usually notices something. Jed Bartlet was on to them both as of his first day back. He knew he couldn’t complain tooloudly, though. First off, it would hurt some feelings; second, these were caring people who honestly did have his best interests in mind; third, he simply couldn’t deny that it was an occasional necessity of his current existence. He and they were in the exact same boat: trying to preserve privacy without compromising safety. If the patient placed a bit more priority on one factor and the protectors on the other, that couldn’t be helped.

Come what may, the protectors were needed, if only to enforce a few new ground rules. Workdays remained far shorter than the norm for any regular employee, let alone this particular workaholic. His noontime rest periods were strictly adhered to, despite heated protests – Debbie took an almost devilish pleasure in kicking him out of his own office – and he had been essentially forbidden to enter the West Wing at all over the weekend save for a national emergency. Which, thankfully on more than one level, had not taken place since his return from the Far East.

Today, as she worked through her own task list, she deliberately reduced the frequency of her glances towards that closed white door. The higher surveillance of last week had been downscaled a bit already due to The Man’s slow yet perceptive progress. He hadn’t set any records yet, but he could balance his upper body more easily and with less fatigue. Most of the time when he was using the lighter chair, he now wheeled himself. His positive outlook never faltered. Of course no one wanted him to overdo anything and suffer a setback, physical or emotional. Still, it lifted everyone’s spirits not only to see signs of improvement but to see him almost _will_ it so.

Curtis was out right now on some errand or other. From the start Debbie made a point of treating that young man exactly the same way she’d treated Charlie. Like any new kid on the block, Curtis had known that he would most likely be compared to his predecessor for the first while, and that the President would need time to get used to him... but he’d won everyone’s diehard gratitude by helping to stage the "jail break" from _Air Force One_ in Beijing. He had gained admittance to this family group with a considerable bang.

Debbie’s musings dissipated as the senior staff arrived. More times than not they would have gathered in the Chief of Staff’s office first, then entered the Oval Office through the connecting door, but lately C.J. had made a point of detouring this way first. It kept the executive secretary informed of who was inside, and when.

"He’s all yours." Debbie waved them through.

She glanced at Josh, for whom this would be his last staff meeting; he looked appropriately somber. She eyed Toby, who eyed her back in a silent challenge; they were the two most morose people in the White House, and always half-seriously jockeying to see who came out ahead. She noted that the Deputy National Security Advisor looked no more expressionless than usual, suggesting that a major crisis hadn’t erupted within the past five minutes. She nodded to the perky Media Relations consultant, whose skills got her invited to these meetings more often than the norm for that support position, and who tried not to walk too closely to C.J. so that the thirteen inches of difference in their heights was not quite so glaringly evident.

Thinking of support staff reminded Debbie of Donna. She’d been gone barely two weeks, and already her gentle, optimistic presence was missed by upper _and_ lower staff. If Josh hadn’t resigned as well, Debbie suspected that he’d go through a temp a day, replacing anyone who couldn’t read his mind and anticipate his requests – a totally unrealistic requirement that Donna had effortlessly fulfilled every time. The secretary to the President wished that young woman the very best.

Debbie evicted that distracting thought and rose from her desk, silently following the staffers inside. Their Chief Executive wasn’t "all" theirs just yet. She liked to anticipate a few requests herself.

He glanced up from his paperwork-strewn desk at this veritable parade of advisors. "Time to gather around the campfire, is it? Be right with you."

He looked absolutely normal. He sounded absolutely normal as well.

Right from the start of this new phase in his life, Bartlet had insisted upon using his own desk chair every chance he could. Not only did it provide excellent back support and greater all-round comfort, it also helped him feel more natural, and it increased the comfort level of everyone else as well. Besides, the symbolism could not be denied. He hated seeing that proud leather throne shoved to one side, discarded, as though he no longer deserved to command the influence it represented.

He also acutely disliked holding discussions across his desk, a characteristic that long predated the entire chair issue. That handsome and historical piece of furniture created a veritable wall at times, reinforcing his rank even when he didn’t want it reinforced. For almost any conversation expected to last more than a few minutes, he instigated the full ritual of being helped into his wheelchair, pushing himself over to the Seal, and then transferring into an armchair. It made a clear point. It also gave him good practice at standing and balancing. Already he seemed to need just a bit less aid in the chair swap from day to day. His visitors would wait for him, as a rule quite patiently. It would be hard for even his most ardent detractors not to feel some admiration at his persistent struggle towards full mobility.

Even so, for all meetings in the Oval – especially non-staff – either Debbie or Curtis entered as well and stayed until that swap had been completed. Their reasoning, which the President never confirmed aloud yet plainly appreciated, was that he would surely rather receive whatever physical aid he might need from his personal employees than from a politician or a diplomat or anyone he didn’t know well. They went out of their way to spare him the embarrassment of actually asking.

So, as the senior staff offered greetings, the personal secretary quietly chose a spot to stand, conveniently close yet not crowding, ready to be of service.

The Man finished his signature with a gratifyingly firm hand and closed the file before him. "Okay. Where are we on finding a new Josh?"

"I should think, sir, that not even _you_ would want to have to deal with another Josh," Toby observed wryly.

Josh looked totally insulted at the comment _and_ the grins on other fronts that wholeheartedly agreed. "Hey! ‘Josh Lyman’ is a registered trademark! There simply _can’t_ be another one like me in the whole world!"

"And thus the world is spared severe emotional trauma," Bartlet wisecracked, eliciting another round of smirks. He removed and pocketed his eyeglasses. "Have a seat; I’ll be right over."

Only then did he notice the surprisingly unassuming presence near his shoulder.

"Debbie, go away. You’ve already had one hug today – and so has Curtis. Time to share the wealth."

Due to her fairly constant attendance, Debbie had witnessed a considerable variety of exchanges with, and reactions to, the new executive image. She resolved very early on not to cut her boss any verbal slack. He didn’t need one more person dancing around the issues, stumbling over words, trying _too_ hard not to drop an accidental insult. She would never hurt him, of course. She would, however, sass him. Without hesitation.

"You should auction those hugs off on eBay, sir. That would pay down the national debt in no time."

Thus did the senior staff receive concrete proof that some people never changed.

He tossed her a look that was definitely more amused than annoyed. "Always good to know one’s true value. Josh, get over here. You can be the brawn this time."

Instantly the humor fled, chased away by a wave of sentiment.

"Yes, _sir_." The outgoing Deputy Chief of Staff sounded just a wee bit choked up, quite an irregularity for him. What more personal farewell gift could there be? It was definitely an "awww" moment.

Debbie withdrew closer to the exit, but she didn’t actually leave yet. The expansion of her protective duty demanded that she make sure this maneuver turned out all right first, and that she spot a problem before it became a catastrophe. She didn’t hesitate to exploit the protocol of not exiting until formally excused, using it as a welcome loophole to linger longer.

Josh as a rule overflowed with impulsive energy. But here and now, the only time he would ever get to provide this service for his leader, he revealed a gentler side that few people saw – and them not that often. He accepted the over-the-shoulder embrace with a smile and very carefully used his strength to help his national leader rise from one chair, then descend into another.

By now Bartlet had recovered enough balance and enough lower limb strength to bend forward and work his feet into the stirrups unassisted, with less risk of a face-plant on his own carpet. Next he reached for his blazer, which had been draped across the back of the large leather chair. His patented "coat flip" was virtually impossible from a seated position, so Josh helped him into it, tucking the tails flat.

As he shrugged himself into shape and tugged his sleeves down, Debbie glimpsed again that subtle silver bracelet. No one on the staff wanted to gossip about their Commander-in-Chief, and that was how it should be, but it also meant that nobody shared theories on a possible explanation for this new jewelry. He still wasn’t entirely accustomed to its presence; she’d spotted him fiddling with it in a distracted manner more than once. Debbie didn’t need to know where it had come from, and she had no intention of ever asking... but she heartily wished that someone would mention it in her hearing just to satisfy her innate curiosity.

Mobile _and_ dressed for business, Bartlet rolled himself out from behind his desk, Josh trailing respectfully, everyone else watching politely –

– and, as he moved into more open space, blithely lifted his two front wheels right off the ground and glided forward an extra few feet at a near-perfect forty-five degree tilt before descending to all fours again.

Debbie found herself staring. That had been a pretty decent wheelie by anyone’s standards: the motion was quite smooth and gave every appearance of being second nature. He’d had his lighter chair model long enough by now to practice a bit. Still, one just didn’t expect the leader of the free world to clown around quite like this.

She wasn’t the only person to experience astonishment. Josh gasped out loud and scrambled in his boss’s wake as though expecting to have to play catcher, then drew back in relief when it became clear that this motion had been deliberate and controlled. C.J. removed her reading glasses, slowly and dramatically. Toby, always the last person around to cut loose and have fun, reined in any emotion he might have been tempted to reveal, but his posture definitely shifted despite his self-control. Kate tipped her head as though a slightly different angle of observation would help her comprehend what she’d just seen.

Annabeth applauded openly, her smile as bright as a beacon. "Well done, sir!"

The President pulled up by the Seal. He was grinning like a little boy, trying to look modest and failing utterly. "This thing has serious possibilities for acrobatics."

Debbie remembered the grapevine discussion on Margaret’s dangerous suggestions from last week. They had clearly been taken more to heart than most people hoped.

In addition, C.J.’s assistant would be furious to hear that she’d missed a made-to-order demonstration of what she’d started. She was lucky, though, in that Leo wasn’t present at this moment...

When and how did The Man practice? Debbie hadn’t heard a whisper. He must’ve been _very_ quiet, and very secluded. She wondered if he’d had to bribe Curtis for that seclusion.

She also hoped fervently that he hadn’t tipped himself right over in some earlier attempt. Such a mishap would’ve dealt out severe inconvenience at the least and considerable injury at the worst. He would’ve had a time trying to explain that to his wife. And then to the White House medic. And then to Leo... and to C.J. as well...

No one in their right mind would want to have to go through _that_ list for any reason, let alone a stupid one.

"In fact," Bartlet went on casually, "I’m thinking about having a half-pipe installed on the grounds so that I can practice going down inclines."

He leaned sideways a notch or two, the way he often did when anticipating people’s reactions to something unexpected that he’d just said. His grin widened at the strangled sound Toby couldn’t completely muffle.

"I’ll bring the camera," Kate offered, deadpan as ever.

"And I’ll bring the First Lady," Debbie chimed in, her threat not quite a joke.

Her boss cocked an eyebrow her way. "Everybody ganging up on me..."

Her efforts to discourage any more nonsense before it got out of hand were meeting with limited success. "Sir, every one of us will _answer_ to the First Lady if you hurt yourself."

Then again, Debbie understood that the humor was essential to his mental well-being. In that view, letting him have a little fun was more than worth it. She’d just have to tighten up on the surveillance before he could throw _all_ caution to the four winds.

The President deftly skirted the elaborately stitched eagle on the carpet, as though subjecting that hallowed emblem to rubber tires was unforgivable, and parked beside the second armchair. This sequence was the harder of the two, since the armchair had no castors, making it a lot more difficult to move behind him. Instead, once out of the wheelchair, he had to shuffle a couple of steps – a very awkward motion even with Josh’s help, requiring a lot more effort. Poor control over his knees and worse control over his ankles forced him to move jerkily, like a marionette, and cautiously, like an old man. Almost everyone else averted their eyes, out of respect and because they just didn’t want to see this harsh evidence of weakness. Debbie didn’t dare, for fear that her swift help might be needed. She waited, every nerve tense, until their boss got settled safely in his new seat and they all could breathe anew.

Truth be known, his determination to walk again was both an inspiration and a danger. He constantly risked falling, not just to the floor but against objects, since he’d be quite unable to protect himself properly on the way down. There were sharp points all over the White House – including on the "Resolute" desk itself. Debbie wondered if she could get away with a joke at some future moment about how even sticking him in an oval room couldn’t keep him from hitting corners.

Now that everyone had gathered around that aforementioned campfire, the executive secretary had become superfluous. Rather than draw further attention to herself and away from the meeting now fully in progress, she didn’t wait for permission to withdraw. The Man was surrounded by several people no less dedicated to his welfare.

Predictably, and perhaps reassuringly, the business of the nation continued no matter what crisis (medical or political) took over the day. Debbie closed the door, returned to her desk, sat down, rechecked her calendar of events for this Wednesday, and started again on her own never-ending supply of paperwork...

_BANG!_

She was out of her chair and rushing towards that white door without waiting for actual thought to draw clear conclusions. Her reflex could not have been more automatic: a loud impact, and if she could hear it then it was _way_ too close to the President.

She burst into the Oval Office at almost the exact same moment that three Secret Service agents blasted through the rear door directly from the hall – guns drawn – and that Margaret charged over from C.J.’s office on the other side of the room. In an eyewink this chamber had been invaded from three angles.

All five invaders braked hard just past their respective thresholds and simply stood there, blinking at the scene.

Bartlet remained in his armchair, and to all appearances he remained well. In fact, his merry grin implied that nothing at all could be wrong.

Nothing _was_ wrong – with him. It at once became evident to all new arrivals exactly what had caused that loud, sharp sound. Not by something hitting the French windows. Not by something detonating inside this sacrosanct office. Josh was sitting in the wheelchair... and the wheelchair was tipped flat on its dorsal side in the middle of the room. Trapping him there in front of everyone like a centerpiece dedicated to the farcical.

No explanations necessary. He must’ve been inspired by that executive exhibition mere minutes ago, asked permission to try one or two maneuvers himself, got overeager in the effort (no news flash there) and went right over backwards.

The earlier "awww" moment had been trumped by the quintessential Lyman Moment. He’d managed to mark his departure from this job with a typically slapstick note.

Fortunately, the agents got the same idea and lowered their weapons. Margaret gaped as though quite unsure how to take this.

The others’ responses were equally appropriate. Toby remained seated on the couch, his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands as though he couldn’t bear to look upon such folly. Kate, who almost never seemed to smile, was smiling now. Annabeth held a palm over her mouth to smother her laughter. C.J. stood over the accident site, arms folded, wrathfully chewing out the instigator.

"No, I will _not_ help you up! You just _had_ to try a wheelie yourself – and in the President’s private chair, no less. You got yourself into it, acting like a child; you can damned well get yourself out!"

No one but Josh would pursue an argument from such an inconvenient position. Head on the floor, knees in the air, he argued anyway. He was looking at a very clumsy somersault if he didn’t earn some sympathy. " _I_ was acting childish? I didn’t go first!"

Bartlet chuckled, eliminating any chance that anyone might read an insult into this heated exchange. "Don’t expect _me_ to apologize. This has provided the highest entertainment I’ve had all week!"

Debbie had no trouble agreeing with him.


	15. Sitting President, The 15

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 15:** _WILL BAILEY_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

It is entirely possible to stand among many other people, some of whom you actually know, and still feel alone.

It had been ten days since the Vice President reassigned his own Chief of Staff to the White House. Will was used to constantly darting back and forth between the OEOB and 1600 Pennsylvania, liaising with (and arguing with) the President’s people, juggling at least three hats in unison... but Russell’s workload had increased notably, and the tensions around the West Wing had increased drastically.

And the campaign was on hold.

Every time Will so much as glanced at a calendar, Super Tuesday seemed to be roaring towards them. Meanwhile, Jed Bartlet’s health showed definite signs of improvement. Therefore, Russell’s extra duties – and hence his right hand man’s – should be over soon enough and they could resume the election trail before timing got dangerously tight. In fact, their closer-than-ever partnership with the White House had only improved the Vice President’s image. However, it couldn’t take the place of actually campaigning.

By no means was all of this extra workload merely ceremonial. Russell had been granted quite a few private meetings with Bartlet on all sorts of business matters, as The Man’s fluctuating energy levels permitted. The Vice President has set out to be one of the first lines of defense around the President, from both the Party’s least scrupulous members and from other politicians regardless of ilk, and in the process he’d proven fairly effective as a human firewall. He didn’t – couldn’t – jettison either his reputation for ordinariness or his inbred nature, but he had risen to the challenge and didn’t look quite so much like the mediocre compromise that most people had seen when he was first sworn in. That in itself would be a _big_ help to the campaign in the end.

In fact, the entire West Wing staff was more welcoming both to Russell and to his own operatives, glad of any help that could ease the burden for their embattled national leader. Nothing else mattered now. Even so, Bartlet still had to be careful not to appear like he was playing favorites within the Party. In like manner, both Russell and Will had been _very_ careful not to appear the least bit critical of the White House itself. The byword was loyalty. The truth was pure necessity. The tension never went away.

The loneliness didn’t, either.

Will stood with his back to the wall near the Communications bullpen, like an observer – or an ambusher. Frankly, "ambusher" made for a decent comparison. He needed to speak to Toby. He didn’t really want to, and he knew Toby certainly didn’t want to speak to _him_ , but that was beside the point. However, if the Communications Director spotted his lurking presence too much in advance, he might well decide to cut a trail in the opposite direction. So Will stood where he wasn’t in anyone’s way, and where he wouldn’t too easily be noticed, and waited for his chance to pounce.

On the other hand, Toby reveled in argument. Will didn’t, although he knew how to fight when he had to. It just took him longer to psyche up. Toby seemed to exist in a constant state of battle-readiness. So Will stood aside, silent and contemplative, preparing for combat.

Feeling alone.

The support staff ignored him. Some – mostly those who didn’t know him – must have clued in that he didn’t want to attract attention. Others – mostly those who did know him – simply felt the same way he did: that despite his very frequent visits over the past two years, he wasn’t one of them any longer. He didn’t belong here.

Of all White House employees, only Toby had been outspoken on the subject of Will’s "defection." The others most likely shared that view, but they still accepted his right to choose his own career. They treated him as an equal (usually) and kept him in the loop (mostly). They made room for him at their meetings, included him in their discussions, and channeled his talents the best way his new affiliation permitted.

If so accused, Will would insist that he had not turned his back on the President. Rather, he had seized the opportunity to prepare the next best man to follow in Bartlet’s footsteps. Their leader already had several wise and skilled advisors; the runner-up had none. Will opted for the long view. This way, at the end of the day he would have provided an even more vital service to the President _and_ the Party.

Correction: their leader _used_ to have several wise and skilled advisors. The last few months, however, had seen a period of depletion in the senior staff roster, a wave of change unparalleled in this administration. C.J. had replaced Leo as White House Chief of Staff, leaving them with no Press Secretary. Josh had left yesterday, depriving them of a Deputy Chief of Staff. Donna had resigned the week before, forcing an untrained temp into the role of Assistant to the Deputy Chief of Staff. Then include the fact that they never did get around to hiring a new Deputy Communications Director after Will’s own departure.

None of this made any mention of the enormous change that had struck the Chief Executive himself, cutting down on his hours, his appearances and his own work output.

It was downright amazing that the Bartlet White House could still function with any productivity whatsoever. Yet it continued to do so. Rather than being visibly damaged by these chunks gouged out of their superstructure, they hunkered down, dug in harder, shored up their thinning ranks and concentrated their efforts all the more, as though the fires of adversity distilled them more and more towards absolute essence.

Thinking of Josh’s absence, and hence his new future, made Will fidget. He remained concerned about the campaign even though he couldn’t work on it just now; any competition naturally added to his nervousness. He didn’t know Matt Santos, though he knew of him, and so far was unimpressed. Dark horse bids for public office at every level happened all the time. Russell held the lead both in public support and in cash flow. Even Hoynes, Russell’s greatest threat to the nomination with his experience and style, couldn’t keep up in the polls. However, now that such a political bulldog had joined Santos’ team, that dark horse could not be ruled out. Will had offered Josh the chance to run Russell’s campaign, and Josh had turned him down because he didn’t believe Russell was the man. He’d turned down Hoynes for the same reason. If Josh believed that Santos _was_ the man... If Josh threw his talent and tenacity behind a candidate that had some virtue the Vice President and the _former_ Vice President both lacked...

Will remembered the time he had challenged Toby to go out there, find a worthy contender and take Russell down. Toby had as much as admitted that he wasn’t up to it, to Will’s satisfaction at being right and relief at being safe. In that moment of security he’d never expected _Josh_ to take up the gauntlet instead. That guy could make or break anyone’s campaign.

Thoughts of Josh almost inevitably came paired with thoughts of Donna. Will wondered what she was doing now. All that anyone seemed to know, when he specifically asked, was that she had a new job "elsewhere."

Why had she left? Will had no idea. Could it have been a personality conflict, or did she get a muchbetter offer somewhere else?

Her timing left something to be desired, at least from the perspective of the White House. It was universally accepted as fact that she could have run Josh’s office without him, and just as certain that he couldn’t work effectively without her.

How would the West Wing get along without either of them? Would this be the final straw to what had always been a close-knit and interdependent cadre? Their tremendous workload precluded refining their numbers down _too_ much, no matter how talented the ones who remained.

If they had already hit critical mass, they betrayed no indication of it yet. But then, the day was young. The _year_ was young.

The last year of Jed Bartlet’s presidency.

Still no sign of Toby. Will didn’t much mind, though. In fact, the longer he stood here, the greater his chance of fulfilling the ulterior motive for his visit at this time. This meeting with Communications was important, but it also served as a blind – an excuse to loiter, in the hopes of catching just one glimpse of The Man.

For all his darting around over the past thirteen days, for all the hours he’d put in among these offices and corridors, since the return from China Will had yet to see Bartlet for himself.

He reassured himself that this desire arose from a straightforward human concern for another human being. It wasn’t that he felt he deserved special privileges – either because he currently worked for the Vice President or because he once worked for the Vice President’s boss. It wasn’t due to the media’s sensationalistic news coverage. It certainly wasn’t because the man at the center of this drama happened to be one of the world’s greatest celebrities. It was a simple fact that Will respected his leader deeply, and liked him personally.

He had no trouble admitting that... but every time he did, it forced him to contemplate another question, one very closely related to the first: did he like and respect his own boss anywhere near as much?

Bob Russell had almost none of the same gifts, and hardly any of the strong qualities that make a great leader. However, this didn’t mean that he was incapable of making a _good_ leader. He never would have been chosen as a possible substitute Commander-in-Chief, with an uncomfortably strong chance of succeeding, if he had failed to convince a lot of people that he could handle that extremely demanding job to a reasonable extent. He had turned into a better Vice President than quite a few of his predecessors. He was gaining priceless experience in executive matters all the time, especially now. His bid for the White House held the future of the Democratic Party.

Will had judged him as a man of potential, if guided well – both in his present office and in the Oval Office to come. There had been Presidents with far worse morals and far less skilled advisors.

So the answer to that disturbing, nagging, dual-pronged question was no, and no – but with qualifiers. He didn’t like Russell the same way he had developed a swift and strong personal liking for Bartlet. Still, he liked Russell well enough to work quite competently with him. He didn’t respect Russell to the degree that Bartlet managed to instill in so many people almost in spite of themselves... but he gave Russell every bit of the respect his title deserved. Will had volunteered to pledge his service and do his damnedest to see this man win the White House.

From these thoughts arose yet another unnerving question: was Russell really deserving of such allegiance?

Will defended his boss and candidate for reasons beyond the blind loyalty of which he’d also been accused before. This was not a case of making the boss look good at all costs, although he naturally wanted to do that as well. Nor was it a matter of just supporting the Party against its political enemies, despite the fact that he honestly believed the Democratic approach beat out the Republican way for good governance. This ultimately became an issue of protecting the nation. Russell could make a decent President – with help, and with practice. Experience was not a factor; everyone entered the job green. Since Will couldn’t back a third term for Bartlet, he chose Russell as the next best bet.

Speaking of loyalty, he had been told about the President’s reprimand to his official second-in-command last Monday. He doubted very much that Josh had told Bartlet about delivering much the same lecture both to Will and to Russell himself before _Air Force One_ had arrived in China, but the similarity of all three messages made it abundantly clear that the White House had not been happy with the recent, pronounced preference of the Vice President’s office to campaign in the spotlight rather than toil in the background.

Will didn’t hide behind false modesty in this; he knew he possessed a political talent of his own. Even though he’d never run a national campaign before, he was doing very well; his ability to learn fast and his excellent organizational skills, plus what experience he did have, made up for many of Russell’s less sterling abilities. In turn, Russell listened to him. Both were pragmatic about the good and bad sides of the electoral process, and what it took to woo voters. They accepted that they’d have to play the game just as hard as everyone else.

The best way to stack things in Russell’s favor was to showcase his best side. But Russell just didn’t _have_ much of a best side. Plus, every move he made inevitably got compared to Bartlet, and no one came out ahead in _that_ equation. Therefore, the most practical way to make the Vice President look distinctly better was to make the President look slightly worse.

It might seem underhanded, but in fact it made political sense. Bartlet didn’t have to run – wasn’t _able_ to run – for election ever again, for _any_ position. Russell faced the biggest election of his life. Russell had the right to claim first place in the public eye.

No matter how often Will tried to comfort himself with this train of logic, a logic adopted by the rulers of Washington long before his time and subscribed to by more followers than he could count, it still refused to sit completely easy in his conscience. In particular now: when he considered the President’s fortitude during an intense personal trial, he couldn’t help but see all the ways Russell fell short of the mark.

At long last, standing here like an abandoned clothes rack, Will took the time to ponder the _big_ change.

At least the early whispers about a possible resignation from the Oval Office itself were just about dead. The health bulletins sounded very positive so far, declaring that Bartlet would recover totally or _almost_ totally over time. Meanwhile, he pressed on with his executive duties, adjusting to restrictions in locomotion and in length of workday... yet making it clear to all and sundry that he was still capable, still worthy.

Will offered up heartfelt thanks to all of this. He did not want to see his former boss suffer and decline. He did not want to see his present boss advance in such a fashion, either. He wanted his boss to win by virtue, not to assume by extremity. He wanted – needed – his boss to campaign, and his boss couldn’t run forthe White House at the same time that he was learning how to actually _run_ it.

He did not resent Russell’s increased role in Bartlet’s schedule. The transferred ceremonial events lifted a severe load from The Man’s overtaxed shoulders; mobility was an issue for most of those occasions, although exertion ultimately tipped the scales. The people would naturally prefer the President to the _Vice_ President, but on the whole they understood Bartlet’s restraints these days, and that he needed to save his energy for actual legislation. The public appearances also provided a major boost to the spirit of the nation... plus, they offered the extra bonus of elevating Russell’s visibility even more. The White House was making very good use of the Vice President’s office, granting more important assignments than ever before, with the result that everyone came out ahead. So far folks had nothing but positive things to say about Russell’s new contributions.

The real trick would be to _keep_ it that way. There was a definitive danger of how Russell actually offered his help to Bartlet: would he come across as supportive, thinking nothing of himself, or would he appear to be practicing for the Oval Office ahead of time? If the Vice President told the President that he was always there if the White House needed help, it sounded supportive. If he were to specify exactly how he intended to help, such as what type of meetings he would and would not take, then it would come across as warming up in the dugout. Will had reached this conclusion himself and expressed it to his boss; they’d have to be careful what impression they presented every step of the way.

Still maintaining his patient and half-clandestine vigil, Will was starting to feel conspicuous. He wished he could just chat with someone, both to pass the time and to add a layer of discretion... but they were all busy, and they weren’t given to casual conversation about the President anyway. Not these days. _No one_ wanted to be overheard and have a joke or a tone of voice misinterpreted, and somebody coming along might read a humorous or a simply factual comment as a criticism instead.

Come to think of it, even Bartlet couldn’t crack too many jokes, even at his own expense. Again, someone coming in halfway through the conversation might not benefit from the punch line, and could jump to the conclusion that he was bemoaning his fate. Besides, humorous references could draw unnecessary attention from _him_ to his condition. And people can resent having their views and their emotions steered like that, however innocently.

Not so different from the way voters resent politicians who play fast and loose on the campaign trail. Vinick, Hoynes, Santos _and_ Russell would all do well to remember that, and their staffers as well.

Ah, yes, Vinick. Will tried not to think of him too much. Once Russell won the nomination, _then_ they could start to worry about the general election. If they tried to orchestrate the battle against their Democrat competitors and against their Republican foe simultaneously, they’d separate their forces, scatter their attention and reduce their effectiveness, and they’d wear themselves out even faster. Divide and conquer. Never fight a war on two fronts. No, they would be far better advised to tackle one trench-line at a time.

Besides, the delay gave Will more time to observe Arnie Vinick and get a handle on his style. He seemed to have a lot of brains, and a lot of integrity, but little humor and none of Bartlet’s spontaneous charm. But then, with regard to qualities like that, none of the candidates could compare to The Man. Vinick came closest in intelligence, Hoynes in wit, Santos in honesty. Here Russell clearly trailed the pack. But just let the Vice President face off against Vinick in the finals and Will would make sure his boss’s very best came out for all to –

His train of thought abruptly derailed. Kate Harper was coming this way.

The Deputy National Security Advisor could always be counted on for a straight answer – assuming it didn’t compromise national security, of course. Also, she had arrived here after Will left, so she was absolutely neutral towards him. She had proven herself more than once to be a consummate professional, and her position kept her exceptionally well informed.

Maybe she could provide the answer to _one_ of the concerns plaguing him.

"Kate." He left the wall to fall into step beside her.

She barely glanced at him. "Lying in wait for someone?"

He grinned good-naturedly. "That sounds a bit predatory even for us, but as a matter of fact..."

"Well, I’m pretty sure I haven’t been demoted to Toby’s job, so I presume the Vice President has some more security questions." She didn’t slow her pace, guessing that he was prepared to tag along with her for a while at least. She also tended to make less casual eye contact than most senior staff members, and she almost never carried briefing notes – as though her brain docketed every single fact in full detail.

"Actually, this is more off the record."

"Now that’s a line the Communications Department hears often."

"And believes rarely. Fear not; I won’t run to the _Times_ with this." Will hesitated just a fraction. "I’m in the market for a presidential health report."

This time Kate _did_ look at him, for two full seconds. "They’ve been keeping you _that_ out of the loop?"

Will made an absent note of her use of "they." Technically she didn’t belong to the senior staff either, although she attended their meetings as often as he did these days. It implied a real segregation, which was not what he wanted to convey. "I vote for time constraints rather than malicious intent. Windows to shoot the breeze around the water cooler have been somewhat lacking of late." As though senior White House employees _ever_ had time to do that.

"And this isn’t the most diplomatic choice for water cooler conversation." She excelled at picking up subtle hints and roundabout references.

Will appreciated that talent – useful for a politician as well as a security operator. Unfortunately, it went hand in hand with beating around the bush, and he did have to get back to stalking Toby at _some_ point. "The number of meetings actually _with_ the President has been few... and naturally those are the ones I’ve missed." He didn’t add that he felt annoyed at being forced to rely upon the news media for Bartlet updates when he had access to the West Wing itself.

Kate needed no more explanation. "Then it might interest you to hear that those numbers are on the rise. For more reasons than one."

His mood lifted at once. "It would interest, delight and relieve."

"Seconded." Her expression didn’t shift and her stride never slowed, but clearly she meant it.

Then her voice softened. "He was walking this morning."

Will’s jaw dropped. _Already?_ Now if that wasn’t good news –!

This silent yet descriptive reaction seemed to touch a chord in the ultra-reserved security expert. Kate chose a convenient corner in the hall and stopped, so that she could face him, and so that he could digest the news without distraction.

Suddenly the atmosphere bore _no_ resemblance to their standard factual briefings. She was offering an observation that had nothing to do with her job or her self-imposed armor for performing that job. She was confiding in a colleague who deserved to know.

"I went up to the Residence to deliver a report... and I just happened to choose the wrong moment." She masked what must have been acute embarrassment on her part for intruding. "He was using his crutches: the kind with supports around the elbow." Sympathy tinged every word. "He wobbled horribly, and I could see that it cost him a lot of effort."

Will tried to picture it: the leader of the free world in such a state of anguished gracelessness. Of weakness _._ It made him flinch.

"He’s _walking_." No doubt Kate saw the distress in her companion; she stressed that fact quietly yet firmly. "He needs more strength, and more practice with those things, but he’s on the high road to recovery."

For once Will could hear genuine emotion in this woman. In this instance, he heard the heartbreaking pain and the uplifting pride that she felt for their leader, who was engaged in such an immediate and private battle against himself.

Both emotions were contagious. Even people who were not the President’s personal friends, even people who were no longer on his staff, cared deeply for him.

And he was making progress.

Will tried hard to encapsulate all of his gratitude into the only word that worked. It didn’t sound anywhere near sufficient, but it was the best he could do.

"Thanks."


	16. Sitting President, The 16

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 16:** _ANNABETH SCHOTT_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

Few people in the civilized world today can go for very long without news. Even those who profess to want a vacation just to get away from it all, and who choose the remotest locales for their seclusion, seldom resist the desire to read the papers, turn on the TV or check the news websites just the same, at least _once_ in a while. "Responsible" citizens have been virtually conditioned to feel downright vulnerable when they’re not in the loop. What triumph or tragedy is happening right now of which they would want to be aware? A missed celebration loses much of its impact and enjoyment after the fact; a missed crisis engenders guilt that one wasn’t suffering with the rest of the affected social group. Ignorance isn’t much of an excuse, since few places in the world are truly out of contact anymore.

News has become the lifeblood of the human race. News unites a nation. News creates celebrities. News defines people’s opinions, from event coverage to movie reviews. Many readers and viewers will believe only what others say, rather than go and see for themselves or seek a second point of view. If they don’t get both sides of the story in the same column, they might never grasp the rest of the argument.

Media Relations was all about understanding the view, and the mood, of the press. Annabeth saw herself as both a liaison and an observer. She most definitely did not claim to be a Press Secretary in training. Just reading a prepared statement before the White House Press Corps rattled her composure the way very few other things could do. She was far more in her element working covertly from the sidelines, monitoring the news cycle without attracting attention to herself.

To her satisfaction, she had been included in a lot of senior staff briefings over the past several months. No one actually explained why; the invitations just started coming on a matter-of-fact basis. Annabeth still wondered whether it was because of her skills in media presentation or Toby’s _lack_ of said skills. Perhaps their recent reduction in senior staff ranks made it simply easier for them to include her instead of briefing her after the fact.

To her even greater satisfaction, this inclusion allowed her to periodically meet the President. Now there was a man with very little pretence and a whole lot of substance, not something Annabeth had encountered either in politics or in media all that often. He had all the qualities that leaders needed and that would-be leaders dreamed of, yet not so much ego that he ignored his advisors or believed that he could not be wrong.

He made mistakes. He was, after all, human. Annabeth figured that she saw him with more of an unbiased eye than the rest of the staff, due to her relative newness here and to her talent for dispassionate observation. Sometimes he yielded to special interest groups’ pressure; sometimes he went with his gut regardless of the arguments; sometimes he didn’t have enough data to render a fully informed verdict. Sometimes he was trapped by political finagling, caused by others and by himself. And when he erred, the ramifications could echo far beyond the nation. Even so, it was hard not to like him.

That side-effect had become even harder to avoid over this past month. Not everyone could wrangle an international breakthrough in one of the most conservative nations in the world. Far fewer would even attempt such an ambitious plan while fighting sudden, near-total paralysis.

As if that wasn’t more than enough, the President of the United States then had to come home and report to his own people, who saw him with minimal hero worship... and resume his regular job, which dished out a punishing schedule and a frightening responsibility... and confront his own press corps, as predatory a media force as existed anywhere in the world.

He had taken a serious gamble: continuing to lead the most powerful nation on earth despite his questionable health and the staggering pressures put upon it by the very nature of his office. A gamble that came after hiding the entire health question in the first place. He had been roundly and formally rebuked for the omission – by Congress, no less – yet he had subsequently been re-elected by the people.... and now his gamble had paid out in physical suffering. Would he be forgiven this time as well? There had been no physical manifestation, no undeniable handicap before...

The moment the news broke seventeen endless days ago, concern had erupted on all fronts as to whether The Man could complete his second term, politically _or_ physically. Then again, some considered it a minor miracle that he’d lasted long enough to have health problems on top of everything else. Pessimists loved to tick off the ways his entire span of office had seen more disasters than any five Presidents before him. Each incumbent tended to suffer at least one ordeal that came to define his administration in the public mind, which the past half-century demonstrated vividly. Truman dropped the bomb on Japan; Eisenhower waged war in Korea; Johnson fought and flubbed Vietnam. Carter lost re-election over the Iranian hostage-taking; Nixon crumbled under Watergate; Ford did as well, indirectly, when he insisted upon clearing Nixon of all wrongdoing. Kennedy would forever be seen as a martyr; Reagan came perilously close to achieving the same distinction. Each man had achieved many positive accomplishments as well, but a headline-grabbing calamity or scandal tended to overshadow all the rest most of the time.

In the case of their current Chief Executive, historians wouldn’t know where to start: with Rosslyn, the first MS revelation, the congressional censure, Shareef, the First Daughter’s kidnapping and Walken’s two-day tenure, Armed Forces deaths in Columbia and Ghana, peacekeeper deaths in Israel, diplomat deaths in Gaza... Jed Bartlet’s epitaph might well end up being "the disaster-prone President." The truly astounding thing was not just that he survived it all, but that he and his staff kept coming back, resuming the fight, continuing to serve and to lead no matter what was thrown at them. One and all, they had set a formidable standard for all administrations to come after them.

As though the pattern had been engraved on the columns of the Capitol that their President from New Hampshire could not be permitted to get through an entire year unscathed, he had been assailed by this remorseless relapse on the very brink of one of his greatest political triumphs.

And then he pulled it off anyway.

Annabeth had braced from the first for a hideous news cycle. No matter how much success The Man achieved overseas, it would be a far different story at home. Here people couldn’t hide behind a generic dislike for another nationality, because this was _their_ nation. Here people didn’t feel obliged to show common courtesy to a foreign guest of honor. Here people demanded that their leader fulfill not only a specific job but a certain image as well. Woe to any President who fell short in this modern age. And a wheelchair had not been part of even the most circumspect image for six decades.

Some of the media entities disappointed her, but they certainly didn’t surprise her. Several raised their voices in a howl of outrage that Bartlet had _desecrated_ the Oval Office by so selfishly clinging to it, even when it was _glaringly_ obvious that he was no longer fit for the task – or worthy, since he’d _lied_ during the first election to attain such a privilege and responsibility. This only established beyond all doubt that he was just as grasping and greedy as all other politicians, attempting to hold onto power at _any_ cost. He _endangered_ the United States, not only domestically but in foreign relations as well, letting the world believe that her people were so _stupid_ as to support unprincipled and weak leaders. They listed all the screw-ups and failures by his administration over seven years, the troops he had sent to fight and die for _other_ people’s wars, the crimes he had perpetrated by his _own_ hand, and the stress he had brought upon the American people since his actions _encouraged_ terrorists to shoot at him or abduct members of his family. All the more proof that he made a _lousy_ leader, they shouted. Even a congressional censure hadn’t been enough to stop him; the only option left was impeachment. He _had_ to be removed from office before he caused _further_ damage to this great nation. American values and American _supremacy_ must be preserved.

In the other corner were those who couldn’t praise Bartlet enough. They made much of the fact that his mind was _absolutely_ unaffected, that his abilities had only been curtailed on certain _cosmetic_ fronts, that his skills and his experience were _vital resources_ to the country. That he’d been fairly re-elected as a general endorsement to his _human_ right to privacy, that his administration had balanced the budget for the first time in thirty years and created millions of new jobs during _both_ terms. That he had risked his soldiers _and_ his public standing, and suffered loses to both, in the honorable desire to help other countries enjoy the simplest liberties that all humans _justly_ deserved, as the strongest nation on earth _should_ be prepared to do. That he had persevered in his duty despite the brutal risk to his loved ones _and_ to himself, and had the matched bullet scars and the horrid memories of separation and of funerals to prove it. That he had selflessly entrusted the security of the nation to other, cooler heads rather than risk adding to its peril through _understandably_ compromised paternal emotion when his daughter was heartlessly kidnapped. That he had been the primary architect of a very promising peace accord in the Middle East, a feat many experts once thought _impossible_ , and that he was well on the way to building no less vital a peace in the _Far_ East. That he was recovering from an ordeal which would persuade a lot of his critics to just give up and wallow in self-pity rather than make the heartbreaking and _courageous_ effort to fight on. He was a hero in the _truest_ sense of the word: battling against the fiercest odds, never complaining, emerging as the victor through sheer will and virtue. Any suggestion that he be forced or even _asked_ to step down now amounted to treason.

Neither side was completely right, or even half-right; neither conveyed the entire picture. As a result, an average citizen’s own viewpoint depended a great deal upon which paper or TV station that citizen happened to select.

The frustration behind all of this was that, if the President made one false move now, no matter how innocent or unintentional, no matter what forces might drive him to compromise one iota too far towards the wrong issue, then the media arrayed against him would seize upon it as further proof of his bad leadership and trumpet it from the airwaves. The irony was that if he failed the least bit to live up to the monumentally high expectations laid out before him – expectations based mostly upon preconceptions of FDR, when the public didn’t see anywhere near as much – then some of the media presently aligned _with_ him would change their tune in a hypocritical heartbeat and launch their own attack.

Annabeth’s job included watching for signs of either kind of trouble. However unmerited, however unfair, any criticism could easily hijack the news cycle, and the administration didn’t need that. The _President_ didn’t need that. He was more than a littlebusy, these days in particular; he could do without the distraction of fanatic voices crying for his blood or his resignation. He and his staff had _real_ tasks to do, and the nation deserved to hear more about said tasks than about said critiques. Unfortunately, slander – a defense permitted to every American citizen – wasn’t readily accepted when coming from the White House... as though most folks figured that "innocent until proven guilty" didn’t apply to politicians. They called it "trial by media" for good reason. There were ways to prevent, or at least damp down, the inflammatory columns and editorials if spotted soon enough: ways that were perfectly legal and mutually beneficial. But the problems had to be identified in time. The Media Relations specialist provided a vital element to executive front-line defense.

Her backstage position gave her one considerable advantage that an official Press Secretary never had. She wasn’t visible, either to the media or to the nation. She could lurk around reporters’ gatherings almost unnoticed most of the time. For once her size was a distinct advantage. Only members of the Press Corps were likely to know her. As a result, she saw and heard a lot from the other side of the mirror.

Like now.

The spacious East Room had been invaded by the Russians. Tables dotted more than half of its polished floor space as Moscow’s full delegation met with the best consultants from Washington, helping themselves to the generous buffet between discussions within their separate task forces.

At the other end of the room, carefully segregated yet close enough to see all and hear some, the press had their own seats and their own refreshments. And, of course, their cameras.

Annabeth couldn’t quash a wave of wonder. The China summit must have looked a lot like this, and this was happening for the same reason and with the same import. The Russians had announced that they wanted a seat at the table in the formal talks over North Korea.

Normally such an international confluence would take place over several days, in several rooms – and without an audience. However, keeping the President’s exertions pared down to an absolute minimum these days meant that everyone conformed to his restricted schedule and made the best possible use of every minute. Besides, this was more of a ceremonial prelude to the real thing: blocking out preliminary agendas and priorities to be fully addressed in April. As for the audience... well, virtually nothing Bartlet did these days could be hidden behind closed doors, or else the whispers of his total incapacitation turned up the volume. So everyone tried to find a middle ground: observe diplomatic protocol and work out a framework that pleased both parties, without taxing The Man’s strength _or_ making him look weak, and without letting the reporters overhear something they shouldn’t.

There were several advantages to be had from this unique afternoon event. The American public got to relive the Chinese summit, most of which had not been televised. The delegates kept their discussions extra-civil and to the point, so as to not damage their image or waste their time. The media enjoyed being granted access they’d never had before. And, most of all, everyone got to see their national leader.

Most photographers, naturally, seized every chance to get photos of the President. Public figure plus physical ailment plus wheelchair as a recent acquisition equals an inevitable guarantee of press attention. Still, he really didn’t look any different from anyone else occupying the regular plush dining chairs. His movements, his expressions, his sharp attire and his animated discussion with the ambassador, the translators and whoever else clustered around him were in no way faked or forced. Many thought this wonderful.

Some...

Skulking around the outskirts of the room as was her wont and her task, Annabeth noticed two people with press passes, a man and a woman, neither of whom she knew. They were loitering just outside the Secret Service-guarded entrance to this chandelier-lit chamber, well away from everyone else. They certainly wouldn’t get any photos from that angle. Besides, they were engaged in what seemed like a fairly lively conversation. Curious, wondering if they were taking a break before returning to their respective spots – or if they were plotting a revolution – she drifted their way.

"...blatant exhibitionism, I’m telling you! Window-dressing. Stage a remake of China and pretend he’s still holding the reins. Parade him around so that the country knows he’s not on his deathbed _yet_. They’ll reap miles of good-will columns!" The man sounded disgusted.

"They won’t get it from me. They’re manipulating him, pure and simple. He’s too weak to do a damned thing by himself. The White House staff is manipulating a puppet!" The woman sounded outraged.

" _Weak_ – that’s the word. How does this make us look in the eyes of the world? That we’ve got a sick and incapable leader? Oh, the terror cells will be so afraid of us _now_. He’ll never make the spring summit at this rate – but what does it matter? It’s here at home that we need the firm hand!"

"They’re milking it, playing the sympathy card. How sanctimonious can you get? Anyone who tries to say the _truth_ about him is branded as heartless. It’s show business. It’s the Kennedy Effect all over again..."

Just then both noticed the silent listener loitering nearby.

"Can I help you?" the man demanded, not really trying to be polite.

Annabeth smiled sweetly. "Oh, just shamelessly eavesdropping. Reading my front-page headline a day early. Forming a fascinating new opinion of professional reporters."

"This happens to be a _private_ conversation," the woman retorted.

"Public place. _Very_ public subject. You’re going to publish it tomorrow anyway, so why deny me now?"

"Well, you can wait until tomorrow like the rest!" the man snapped.

Annabeth kept smiling. She excelled in irritating people with that perky-no-matter-what attitude. "Perhaps you’d at least care to tell me which papers are going to showcase such a malignant view of the President... so I’ll know which papers to avoid."

The woman’s eyes narrowed viciously. "We’re entitled to express our opinion just like anyone else!"

"Yes, you are. First Amendment of the Constitution. In this democracy it’s irrelevant that said opinion has _no_ basis in fact, and _no_ understanding of exactly what the President is going through. I’d pay big money to see how well _you_ might fare under similar circumstances."

"Where do you get off lecturing us?" The man stepped closer, looming over her like a mountain. Clearly he figured that no one of importance would be out here rather than in there.

With armed bodyguards scattered inside andoutside the room, there was little fear of physical aggression. However, this _verbal_ aggression was subjecting that perkiness to a distinct strain. Annabeth let her smile fade and glared up at him, quite unafraid. "Who I am is irrelevant. I could be a fellow reporter or an employee of the White House or just a member of the general public; it matters not. I too have a right to speak my mind. The difference is that Ibase opinion upon the evidence of my eyes. The President is doing his job – a very exacting job, by the way – without whining in the least, despite a wide plethora of handicaps. One of which is people like you. You’re _almost_ as hard on him as those who build him up like a god and set totally unrealistic standards that no human could meet."

The woman advanced in a not-very-subtle flanking maneuver. "Oh, I think we’re about to prove otherwise." The words came out in a deadly growl, from a person whose published words could ruin reputations.

Before Annabeth could plot her strategy any further, a strategy that should probably shift towards undoing the harm she might have indirectly caused to Bartlet’s press coverage, a throat cleared behind her. She turned, unaware before now that anyone else had been attracted to their face-off.

Her boss stood a few feet away, as dour of expression as ever.

A quick glance back revealed that her adversaries had stiffened in apprehension. At least they knew the White House Communications Director by sight. And they knew how much trouble he could cause them – nearly as much as they could cause the President.

Annabeth had a more pressing concern. He could cause _her_ quite a bit of trouble as well. She had not presented the kind of professionalism befitting a White House employee.

Her nature didn’t sit well with "contrite," but she tried. "Was that totally inappropriate of me, Toby?"

She braced for a public dressing-down. He might pretend to bawl her out just to send a message to the press. The administration’s image had to come first.

Hands in his pockets, Toby barely moved. "Well, I would’ve been somewhat less tactful in my language choice..."

A passing grade! Plus, it told these two reporters that this petite, annoyingly outspoken blonde was on his staff, and thus under the jurisdiction of one of the most ruthless political operatives in Washington.

Nothing more needed to be said. Annabeth contented herself with a fresh smile that didn’t quite come across as smug, and a graceful withdrawal that was not quite a retreat.

"Trying to muscle in on my turf?" Toby asked quietly, not looking at her as they walked back into the East Room. Plainly he felt that harassing the press was his exclusive domain.

"Someone has to pick the fights when you’re not around," she pointed out in her usual bright tone. She wasn’t fooled by his coolness towards her, though. He might not have enjoyed coming to her rescue, or the fact that she’d created the need to be rescued in the first place, but circumventing a potential media lambasting tipped the scales. Nothing angered Toby Ziegler more than attacks upon Jed Bartlet. That, and sheer stupidity.

Returning to her backstage circuit along the extreme edge of activity, Annabeth soon ran across another reporter who needed some straightening out – this one in the opposite direction. She hadn’t been kidding before when she said that hero worship could be an even bigger menace to the President in the long run. He didn’t want pity for being so unjustly smitten by a disease he couldn’t help, or adulation for enduring a sudden, severe handicap that stillcouldn’t prevent him from doing his job. He hated having his medical status draw attention away from the actual work he’d accomplished and _was_ accomplishing on behalf of others. He disliked any mentions of a Nobel Peace Prize; praise heaped upon him would irritate the other world leaders who had just as much to do with these visionary accords. Each President naturally wants to leave a legacy, but Bartlet most definitely did not labor so long, and risk his health _and_ his administration, just to win the world’s applause.

Having engaged both extremes of the battle spectrum with considerable success, Annabeth inched closer to the ranks of her fellows. Toby had returned to one of the debate tables. C.J. stood as close to the public eye as she could without actually entering it, like a sentry – although her concerns focused more upon political than concrete threats. Annabeth looked automatically for Josh, who would normally have been here as well, wrangling concessions... then reminded herself that he’d left yesterday. After crashing the presidential chair, no less; she still chuckled inwardly over that.

No surprise, the gathering around the head table remained the largest and the most energetic. The Man had welcomed this unanticipated proposal with open arms: the natural follow-up to the ground he broke earlier this month. Russia had every reason to want to take part in the Korean negotiations, if only by geographical proximity, and their willing participation could solve even more of the persistent problems haunting that volatile region of the world.

Bartlet had chosen to remain in his personal conveyance tonight, rather than seek assistance shuffling back and forth between seats. He continued to improve at the chair switch, and was less self-conscious about it as a result, but didn’t see any point in performing before the cameras of the world. Leastwise, not more than he had to already.

The ambassador, one Andrzej Boriskov, seemed to be getting along with his host just fine. It must have been annoying enough for the formerly much-feared Soviet superpower to come to the door of the world’s _last_ superpower, considered its bitterest enemy not so very long ago, and ask permission to join the discussion over a nation that they once considered their own satellite. It also must have been a bit unsettling to conduct such delicate business in such an irregular setting, where one misspoken word on either side might be overheard and blown out of proportion – although that latent risk also served to keep tempers under control.

Whatever the case, he appeared to be a consummate diplomat indeed: he gave no obvious sign that he felt unhappy about his nation having to politely request a place at the bargaining table rather than confidently demand it... or uncomfortable in dealing with a man who had such a publicly displayed and debated handicap. Who knew; perhaps this imperfect image of the most powerful individual on earth made him look more human, less intimidating, more approachable, less intractable. Perhaps it actually helped to grease the rails of cooperation.

Or perhaps it had nothing to do with anything. When you’re talking to someone, if that someone has a strong personality, the personality is what you are most aware of – particularly if it’s someone you respect, and certainly if it’s someone you know. You don’t notice physical details all the time; you just interact.

If only the press could seethis the way the staff did.

Annabeth didn’t crowd her colleagues, and not just because casual conversation didn’t fit here. Since her debut there had been quite a few height jokes comparing her to everyone else, especially C.J. She hadn’t reported directly to the President yet, and probably wouldn’t anytime soon... but it was a safe bet that he’d like having onemember of his staff whom he could finally tower over himself.

She reminded herself not to think like a tourist. This wasn’t China; that had already happened. This was the White House, and she had both a personal stake in the outcome and a definite job towards making that outcome happen.

Scanning faces, in case one of the Team needed to send her a subtle signal of more media trouble brewing on the horizon, she looked at Charlie... and saw something she didn’t like at all. He stood rigid, as though tensed for sudden action.

She tried to follow his line of sight. At least that wasn’t too hard – he had his eyes fixed on their leader.

To her, Bartlet seemed fine, chuckling at whatever joke had just been told and waving one hand to emphasize his rejoinder. Apparently certain punch lines translated well.

Annabeth glided over to him. "Something the matter?" she whispered, keeping her tone low and discreet.

Charlie didn’t spare her a glance, although she couldn’t tell whether that was because he felt totally comfortable explaining himself to her or because he didn’t dare take his eyes off the President.

His voice was even lower, even more cautious. "He’s sweating."

She peered closer. Now that she knew what to look for, she too could detect the visible sheen of perspiration on The Man’s forehead.

"You think he’s having a hot flush?" she kidded, but only half-heartedly. The former body man was a textbook example of staff protectiveness towards their Chief Executive.

"He’s starting to overheat."

"In here? It’s not _that_ warm..."

Charlie drew a long, worried breath. "The official physician said that he might not handle warm rooms as well now as before."

Annabeth’s vision darted around this handsome chamber and everything in it. The gorgeous chandeliers, the ornate lamps mounted on the walls, the pot-lights in the high ceiling – all seemed somehow to focus their illumination upon the President, as though he drew the brilliance to himself. Plus, two spotlights set high against the side walls _were_ deliberately turned on him, for the sake of the press.

The Media Relations specialist felt neither warm nor cool in here. However, she wasn’t sitting right under those lights the entire while. She wasn’t surrounded by people whose very body temperature further warmed the air around them. She wasn’t the center of attention, talking constantly to diplomats and counselors, balancing very sensitive issues of international weight very carefully, granted no time to rest. She wasn’t under the public microscope, needing to look well even when she didn’t feel like it.

She wasn’t fighting a serious and recently flaring neurological illness.

Panic nibbled, with cold, needle-sharp teeth. "No one ever mentioned..."

"No one ever gave it a thought." Charlie fidgeted. "Full room and hot lamps for over an hour now."

This was a totally unexpected problem – something they hadn’t realized might _be_ a problem until it started to happen. Far too late, the first signs of damage had become visible.

How could they have prevented it? By lowering the temperature of the entire room, perhaps... but even if people didn’t complain, their numbers would have eventually counteracted anyway. The worst problem, the matter of the extra lights, an absolute necessity around this man for so long that their use was never questioned, hadn’t occurred to _anyone_.

What could they do? They couldn’t take the lights _off_ him – not with the cameras there to require the illumination and the reporters to ask unwelcome questions. They couldn’t just take him out of the room, either; everyone would jump to conclusions.

But if they didn’t do _something_ , and the President fainted in front of everyone –!

Or if he made it through only to relapse again later on –!

This really _was_ like the China summit, with potential for the same consequences – politically _and_ medically.

"We have to get him out of here!"

"He won’t go."

Charlie was right; Bartlet wouldn’t permit himself to be removed from the room unless he really believed that he was on the verge of collapse. He had come to prove his stamina and capability, not provide a perfect demonstration to the contrary. In the earlier planning session, an hour or so quietly sitting and talking inside the White House seemed perfectly doable. Neither he nor they had guessed that circumstances would conspire to make things way harder for him. Regrettably, they couldn’t know his new limits until he hit them.

He had never considered leaving this task to others. The Korean summit was his baby, his job to finish. This was far less ceremonial than it looked. It would have been very bad politics to bring in the _Vice_ President – or for the President to show up only intermittently, as though he couldn’t be bothered with all the details. Besides, if he could hammer out an accord with another president but he couldn’t handle a request from an ambassador, how would that look? Russia was no longer the enemy, yet it still merited caution, and it deserved respect. The United States couldn’t risk any loss of face now – not when Bartlet’s disability had rocked his country’s foreign image every bit as violently as it had disconcerted his own citizens here at home.

Annabeth resisted the almost irresistible urge to stare at her fellow staffers, to silently plead for direction, or at least to glimpse clues about what steps they planned to take. If they hadn’t noticed yet, they needed to be told ASAP. But if the reporters spotted her nervousness, or theirs, then the balloon would go up and the rumors would circulate at warp speed. With a supreme effort, she also resisted the compulsion to chew her nails. Suddenly every second that ticked by clanged in her head like the toll of doom. Suddenly she knew just how it must have felt to be on _Air Force One_ two weeks ago.

They could invent some excuse – a phone call from another head of state, a trip to the Situation Room, _anything_ – that needed the Commander-in-Chief’s immediate attention. They could just as easily invent a reason as to why this fictitious crisis didn’t materialize later on, should any press representatives ask about it.

They always tried not to lie to their leader, but in a tight moment and for his own well-being...

Annabeth started to plot the script for this drama in her head. She could pretend that someone had told her about a matter on which the President needed to be informed at once; she’d whisper to Charlie, who would whisper to C.J., who would whisper to The Man. At least then he’d come willingly, and his anger at being fussed over would detonate out of the media’s glare. They’d far rather face the private fury than the public pain.

Then, almost abruptly given her preoccupation, this mini-summit began to wind down. Still showing no obvious sign of physical distress, the President summoned everyone’s attention.

This was the really fraught moment: it demanded extra exertion, and any slip he made would be seen by everyone.

Also, the staff could not interrupt now.

He wrapped everything up within five minutes – which must have been a record for this master of eloquence. He gave a succinct summary of the agreed-upon items for the revised agenda in April. He thanked everyone for their invaluable input and expressed his conviction that they would all meet again in the spring to apply the wonderful headway they’d established today, and to join with other similarly-progressive nations to work out an equitable peace for the whole world. He complied with the standard formality by toasting his guests and being toasted in return. There really was a lot of showmanship to this kind of event. Somehow, without appearing to be hurried in the least, he shook the ambassador’s hand one more time, waved to the cameras, and then allowed himself to be slowly, almost reluctantly, wheeled out. Applause trailed in his wake.

The staff followed at a similarly restrained pace. Annabeth fought to keep her tension from showing in each stiff stride. _Smile for the birdie..._ Around her, the others had definitely seen the evidence for themselves; they wore identical neutral masks locked in place. And yet someone close by could detect the tautness of shoulders and spines, feel the urge to rush out of here as fast as possible before –

The moment they turned a second corner and moved completely out of sight, with only the inevitable Secret Service to witness, Curtis stopped short. He didn’t need to be told.

C.J. stepped in front of the chair’s occupant. "Sir?" She attempted to sound matter-of-fact, as though just asking for orders... attempted not to display the surging anxiety that had consumed them all.

Aware of their comparative solitude at last, Bartlet released a heavy exhalation. His eyes closed; his head sank forward; his whole body seemed to deflate in melting exhaustion. Perspiration was running down his face. They could _see_ the energy drain out of him.

"Made it," he mumbled.

He’d known what was happening to him, and stubbornly pushed himself to get through that diplomatic maze anyway, to reap the bounty it offered to the future. Annabeth shook her head in no little amazement, and no little concern. His dedication and determination were admirable, but he could end up doing more harm than good in the end.

Not that shewas going to tell him so. Besides, she’d lay strong odds on him getting that very lecture from others before too long.

This _personal_ crisis had only one solution. At C.J.’s sharp nod, Curtis accelerated forward to as fast a speed as a chair could safely be propelled; in fact, he tipped it backwards several degrees, lifting the front wheels right off the floor. That reduced the chances of those smaller wheels catching against something, it granted more maneuverability to the heavy conveyance, and it eased the energy demand of the passenger. Everyone kept pace, all no doubt wishing they would teleport directly to the Residence _now._ Toby stayed close on one side and Charlie on the other, each with a supporting hand on their boss’s shoulder to ensure that he didn’t fall right out of his seat for sheer lack of strength.

Bartlet offered no protest to such attention. He had accomplished his goal this evening, and now placed himself in the trusted hands of his closest advisors. Or maybe he was just too tired to object.

But he had made it through the Russian conference; he had stayed the course. He had laid the foundation for more cooperation between dangerously capricious nations. He _had_ proven his strength and endurance, and not solely to the press.

Yet at what cost? Was this result just a deep weariness... or worse?


	17. Sitting President, The 17

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 17:** _ARNIE VINICK_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

For all intents and purposes, everything in Washington, D.C. comes with only two views: Democrat and Republican. It’s a state of mind that probably can’t be avoided when one lives so close to the seat of government, much less works within it. People are prone to pigeonholing each other based primarily upon their political leaning, and adopt instant antipathy for the other side. People tend to politicize every discussion, spin every topic and put a price tag on every action. This is the all-too-frequent cost of living in the nation’s capital; there is simply no escape from such an established and pragmatic method of doing business.

The choice of name for each Party is an exercise in irony, since this nation is considered both republican _and_ democratic. Therefore, both terms should apply to all Americans. Granted, if one got technical and delved into the original definitions, one would realize that in the narrowest concept they are mutually exclusive: in a democracy the people rule, whereas in a republic the people chose the rulers. Impressively, the United States of America has done a fine job of riding both horses at the same time.

In the same breath, the Presidency of the United States probably invests more power in a single individual than any other office on earth.

Truthfully, people’s preoccupation with party affiliation often has less to do with small-mindedness and more to do with the fact that, if you know an individual’s leaning, you have an idea of where he or she might stand on a range of issues. All the same, occasionally someone comes along who refuses to be stuffed into one of the traditional slots. This can be extremely disconcerting for those who always evaluate value and trustworthiness by Party affiliation. For those with a more open mind, it can be a breath of fresh air.

"Good morning, and welcome to _Eye on America_. I’m Phillippa Stephens. Happy New Year’s Eve, and I hope you all have fun plans for tonight. In the meantime, thank you for devoting some of your day to our program. Our special guest today is Senator Arnold Vinick. Senator, glad to have you with us."

The dapper senior politician returned the nod and smile. "I’m pleased to be here."

He rested his forearms upon the tabletop, hands clasped, doing his best to look comfortable despite the huge TV cameras trained directly on him. He’d spent a lot of years in the public eye, but some aspects of it were less pleasant than others. Fortunately, he had long since perfected the public mask.

Phillippa leaned back in her chair, ignoring the notes on the table before her. "So you’re running for President. I congratulate you on such an initiative, Senator. What inspired you to seek the Republican nomination?"

"Several things. The incident that means the most to me was when a few of my colleagues and I were watching the news coverage of the Democrat candidates roughly three weeks ago, and one of my friends said that we needed a strong contender to take back the White House. The discussion started going around the table as to who we thought had a decent shot."

"And your name came up?"

Vinick gave a modest grin. "It did – but not by me. I recall spending the rest of our get-together trying to talk them out of it." He shrugged, recalling that vociferous conversation. "Instead, they talked me into it."

"Great moments in history can have very humble beginnings."

"I think those beginnings are the best kind. It certainly was humbling to hear that some people have so much faith in me."

"I can only imagine as much. Now I notice your reference to ‘taking back the White House.’" Phillippa still acted non-confrontational... suspiciously so. Not entirely unexpected, though. Vinick and his advisors had wisely checked into her techniques in advance. "Don’t you think that makes the election sound a bit like a sporting event? A mere game. As though the White House belongs to you and no one else, and now you’re out to reclaim your right in a football match or something."

Vinick saw the pit-trap from a mile away. "Oh, we were not trying to belittle it at all. On the other hand, the contest for the Presidency is not a life-or-death war. Politics by its very nature can be a bit cutthroat at times; but win or lose, the nation will still go on."

"Now it sounds like you don’t care _who_ wins."

"I have to confess to some bias about the outcome. But I’m not one to insist that any Democrat win is automatically fraudulent. That’s the same as saying that everyone who votes Democrat is dishonest. I think far more highly of my fellow citizens than that." Vinick also didn’t want to alienate any Democrat citizens who just might be thinking about switching sides.

"I see. Whereas most Republicans _do_ denounce such wins?"

He had known from the start that this interview would be a minefield. Phillippa Stephens claimed to have no party allegiance at all and had already subjected Russell and Hoynes to similar grillings in recent weeks. That didn’t make her questions today any less pointed.

"There are grudge-holders on both sides of the fence. If you’ve spent a year or more dreaming of victory and another year campaigning for it, and you lose on the final ballot, it’s perfectly human to feel bitter. Competition is good and necessary – it brings out the best effort in each of us. But you can carry competition too far in anything. There are people who take the Super Bowl even more seriously."

"Well, I’m not a politician, so there must be a few angles that escape me entirely." As though political pundits didn’t have to be _very_ knowledgeable. Vinick figured that for an attempt to lull him into a false sense of security. "For instance, the matter of competition you just mentioned. In sports, you play to win at any costs – but within the rules of the game. There are those who say politics _has_ no rules... that it’s survival of the least principled."

"I’ve heard that accusation, too. I can’t speak for others, but I’ve never run a smear campaign in my life, and I will not start now. Nor do I go into any campaign expecting to be smeared by my opponents. If they choose to use that approach, they have to live with their conscience afterwards. We aren’t here to elect the person with the least faults or the least scruples, but the one with the most appropriate qualities."

"Forgive me, Senator, but that comes across as almost naïve for a federal politician." Phillippa wasn’t really obnoxious, or badgering; her tone remained light and conversational, clearly interested in each reply. However, she would not fail to pounce on a slip-up.

It was the kind of courteous debate that Vinick loved and in which he excelled, especially when his fellow debater was neutral _and_ knowledgeable. "There’s a difference between accepting that dishonesty exists in the world and expecting it in every person you meet. I’m reminded of a quote in an old book I read many years ago: ‘I call every man friend until and unless he proves he is no friend of mine.’"

He chose his words carefully. He granted friendship – the acquaintance variety, at least – without reservation, but very few people earned his genuine trust. That was one thing he never intended to be quoted on, ever.

Phillippa’s grin adopted an edge. "What, women excluded?"

Vinick smiled tolerantly. "That was a direct quote, Ms. Stephens. The book was written long before the term _political correctness_ was even coined. I don’t condone excluding women from anything. In fact I went on record the other day about women someday running for President. I hope I’ll be around to finally see it happen."

"Now that _would_ be an exciting campaign. Pretty divisive, though."

"You’re assuming that some people would vote solely on gender. I’ve got more faith in American common sense than that. In a final decision between a male and a female candidate, there might be a few women who’d vote for the woman and a few men who’d vote for the man, either out of a misplaced sense of loyalty or out of irrational dislike for the opposite sex... but the vast majority will focus on their impressions of the skills and qualities behind each individual. We’re talking about the most influential office on this side of the world, not a mere figurehead. If we can’t pick the best person for the job, irrespective of gender or anything else, then we still have a lot of growing up to do."

"You make a convincing argument. However, it looks like it won’t happen this time around; no women have entered either race. In fact, _no one_ has challenged you for the Republican nomination. I’m curious: does it surprise you that President Walken chose not to put his name forth? He had only two days last time; many people feel that he deserves a full term."

This was no time for Vinick to mince words. The former House Speaker had made his own views known long before this. "Not to put too fine a point on it, President Walken had two days of hell. He was dropped into a national and _inter_ national crisis with no warning and no training. He handled it very well, but he’s said he never wants to go through that again."

"Hypothetically speaking, then, do you think that – if he’d remained in office – he might’ve been a better leader than President Bartlet? Or than you yourself?"

A bit more caution was needed here. "He might’ve been at that – but the one thing Glen Walken lacks is the desire for the office. Vice Presidents don’t accept their appointment unless they also accept the possibility that they could be catapulted into the White House on very short notice. The Speaker of the House may be second in line, but he doesn’t automatically have that same mental preparation. This was the first time it’s happened in our entire history. President Walken never wanted to run for the White House in the first place, and now he knows why. It’s just not for some people."

"That sobering view doesn’t seem to have deterred _you_ any."

"I believe I’m up to it. I also believe I’ve provided sufficient proof in my career that I’m up to it. Of course no one really knows until one faces the actual task, which is why we have advisors. One critical quality for a President is to pick those advisors based on sound judgment. And to learn very fast, so that he can apply that judgment right across the board. Again, I believe my track record speaks for itself."

"Indeed. Well, Senator, we’ve heard why you think you’re suitable for the job. Let’s hear what you think about your closest competition."

There was plenty of room here to trip badly. Vinick knew what his hostess was watching for, what his colleagues wanted, and what his adversaries would love to use against him. He utterly refused to enter into a mud-slinging match. The bald truth about such fights is that no one can throw mud in any direction without getting at least some on oneself.

"I don’t know any of them that well, so I can only go on instinct here. Still, instinct plays a big part in politics, since we almost never have all of the facts right when we need them." That observation applied to all and sundry, and provided a wee bit of a buffer against bad decisions made by anyone: that people did their best with what they had at the moment, and that hindsight (which always had _more_ facts) could be frankly unfair.

"I believe that what Bob Russell may lack in personality, he’s making up for with his recent experience. Any of us can rise above ourselves if we try hard enough." Vinick emphasized the "may" just enough to be noticed without being obvious. "I believe that what John Hoynes may lack in moral history, he makes up for with his personality. Everyone deserves a second chance." He deliberately said _history_ , not _integrity_. "I believe that what Matt Santos may lack in notoriety, he makes up for with daring. The more people try out, the more choice the voters have."

There – he had handed out viewpoints that contained just enough of a compliment to dodge the Democrats’ anger and just enough of a critique to dodge the Republicans’ anger. More to the point, they diplomatically reflected what he honestly thought were the most obvious strengths and weaknesses of each man.

Phillippa had probably planned to dissect every word for a flaw or an insult... but the mention of the third opposing candidate stopped her short. "Santos? Pardon my disbelief, Senator, but do you really consider him a serious contender?"

" _Every_ contender in _every_ political race should be considered. Never underestimate your opponent. Many members of Congress, and a few Presidents as well, started out as dark horse bids. Including, let me remind you, President Bartlet himself. It’s one of the glories of this nation that anyone can run for any office."

Vinick didn’t admit aloud that, in a close race, the individuals running the campaign from the background could ultimately tip the scales. Russell had Will Bailey, and Santos had Josh Lyman. Both young men were extremely capable.

"You’re positively urging on the Democrats here." Phillippa sounded like that was the last thing she expected a Republican to do.

"A spirited debate is precisely what the electoral process of this country demands and what the people need. Get the issues out there. Then everyone knows where everyone stands. We want informed voters – not voters who choose blindly or voters who don’t care."

There was an added bonus: the more people in the same fight, the more divided the Democrats would look, and the greater chance that their most effective candidate would not in fact make the cut. Also, the fiercer the battle for the nomination, the more worn-out the victor would be, and the more faults exposed. Plus, the more familiar Vinick would become with his final adversary’s style. All of this could only work in his favor. He played to win, and he knew how to exploit his opponent’s flaws.

"You sure appear to be looking forward to the contest, Senator."

"I am. Besides, there hasn’t been a Republican in the White House for two terms now, and the people need to hear the _right_ reasons as to why there should be a turnover."

Phillippa adopted a cunning expression. "Again with the sporting references. Leaving aside the obvious fact that President Bartlet is a Democrat, why else do you think there should be a change?"

"I have no personal issue with the President or the way he’s done his job. It’s a simple fact that having the same Party in charge for too long leads to national stagnation."

Vinick forced himself not to wince. He’d goofed there: left himself wide open to the rebuttal that by his own argument the GOP shouldn’t stay in power too long, either. He’d been so cautious about how his comments on Bartlet might be construed...

Fortunately, his hostess seized upon the intended point rather than the involuntary point. "‘No personal issue.’ So you have professional or political issues instead?"

"I’m Republican, Ms. Stephens. Our platforms diverge on a lot of topics. Personally, though, I applaud the overall job the President is doing. Just because I would handle certain things differently doesn’t make the office any less difficult for the man who actually holds it."

Phillippa perked right up – a danger signal. She must’ve been waiting for this kind of comment from the start. "I’d like to hear in what way you might’ve handled things differently. We can start with some of the President’s foreign ventures."

This had the potential to be disastrous. If Vinick sounded one iota more critical of Bartlet beyond the usual Party dimension, he’d be vilified in the press as totally insensitive towards an accomplished statesman at an unfair _physical_ disadvantage. Conversely, if he came out too much in Bartlet’s favor, his own affiliates wouldn’t be thrilled either.

"We’re two very different _people,_ too, you know. I can’t say for sure that I would’ve had as much or more success overseas as a result. Besides, there’s no point speculating on how things might’ve gone differently in the past. No President or Presidential hopeful should be compared to _past_ Presidents in that way. There are just too many factors involved. Personalities are different. Circumstances would have been different as well. Now if you want to talk about foreign relations in general..."

"Some people are calling President Bartlet one of our best leaders in living memory." Interestingly, Phillippa passed up on airing the actual issues in this forum and chose to concentrate on more direct, possibly inflammatory views. Another danger sign.

Vinick leaned back in his chair. He most definitely did not want to appear argumentative now. Conversely, he must not come across as dismissive, waffling or, God forbid, pandering. "He’s achieved some grand accomplishments during his time in office. He’s made some mistakes, too. Every President has had his ups and downs. I don’t want to try to grade him against the great men of our past. I will say that President Bartlet has been a very educational role model for candidates like me."

" _Role model_ , Senator? Are you telling me you want to follow in his footsteps?" To most people, admitting that from the other side of the political spectrum would be suicidal.

"I’m not too proud or too egotistic to learn from the examples of others – good and bad. Even if they are from the other Party, or someone I don’t happen to like." Vinick dropped that last line deliberately. Time to manipulate the manipulator.

Phillippa fell for it. "You don’t like the President?"

"I didn’t say that I don’t like _him_. You have to _know_ a person before you can say you like or dislike them. I do respect him a great deal."

"That’s quite an endorsement, coming from the enemy –"

_Bingo._ "I am not the President’s _enemy_ , Ms. Stephens. That’s a federal crime. He’s still our duly elected national representative. If he were running again, I would see him as an opponent, but that isn’t the case. And if I’m elected, I sure hope people don’t start seeing _me_ as their enemy. I’m running because I want to serve them."

There – that speech had been long in coming. So far, ever since he’d announced his candidacy, not one person at any of his previous speaking engagements had even come close to providing such an opportunity. Vinick hoped the other candidates were watching. He hoped the people were watching. He’d show them all how an honest man could still run for the most competitive office in the country.

"Now we were talking about foreign policy not long ago..." He wanted to discuss his platform, not dance around the snare of public criticism.

"Right – about that. Do you think President Bartlet was right to send our troops overseas as often as he has?" Yes, clearly Phillippa planned to keep this personal rather than general, probing for a weak spot in his defenses.

"Absolutely. The strong must protect the weak. That is the ultimate characteristic of civilization. It’s the same reason we have Social Security and Medicare, among other programs. Suppose I lived in a country where my civil liberties were being trampled and my life endangered. I sure hope the rest of the world wouldn’t ignore me just because I came from a small nation that didn’t play a major role in international affairs. In the same way, if I fell down while crossing the street outside this building and broke my arm, or caught a nasty flu bug from my neighbor, or my home was broken into, I hope America wouldn’t simply abandon me to fend for myself. We help each other. No matter who we are."

He hadn’t intended it, but he’d provided an excellent opening for another attack. Phillippa didn’t pass it up – it was too perfect. "Since you brought up the health issue, where do you stand on the President’s current condition?"

The entire studio – indeed, the entire audience of viewers – must have leaned forward in anticipation.

Sternly, Vinick ordered himself to hold tight onto his annoyance. The older one gets, the more sensitive one naturally becomes to the topic of personal health. He didn’t move, still apparently at ease in his chair and unbothered by the challenge. He did wonder, though, whether his irritation was becoming visible.

"My stance is that we’ve spent too much time debating this over the past two weeks, never mind the past few years. The President established in his first term that he’s good at his job. He deserved the chance to see if he could _still_ do his job. He asked for that second chance, and he was granted it fair and square. To date he’s given no indication that he _can’t_ properly do his job, even now. We’ve had Presidents before with health problems, and they managed as well. Why should this one be any different?"

Phillippa might have liked to interject, but she didn’t get an opening.

"For the record, my own health is excellent. I’ve already released my last physical to the media. I have no problem with that. But what if there’s some kind of degenerate disease lurking in my genes that I don’t even know about? A history of heart trouble a few generations back – or whatever? It might never surface, no matter what job I have. If it did surface, and I swore I didn’t know in advance, odds are a lot of people wouldn’t believe me. Even so, I don’t see that as sufficient reason to go for genetic testing. Never mind the fact that, if something _did_ turn up, then I’d have to live the rest of my life just waiting for it to detonate."

His hostess made no attempt to interrupt this time. She looked surprised at such a display of passion – restrained and levelheaded, but passion just the same. Vinick didn’t mind. Let everyone see how earnest he was on this.

"A President runs more than enough risk from criminal intent; he shouldn’t be hounded over his medical history as well. President Bartlet has been subjected to _both_ extremes. If he hadn’t survived his own shooting, we’d never even know about the MS. It takes a lot of courage – and more than a touch of fatalism, I think – to aim for the office. It takes a lot of selflessness and dedication to _give_ so much to the office. We’re too discriminating already about who dares to run. We still haven’t had a woman candidate. We haven’t had a black candidate, either... or a Jewish candidate. And yet we tell all our children that anyone can grow up to be President. Well, I bet they get it pretty fast that we really mean a white male with certain beliefs, high education, excellent health, lots of money and no mistakes in his youth. Are we going to make it even harder for them and insist that anyone who even thinks about running for the White House has to undergo intensive medical screening first? Will we start applying that standard to other elected offices next?"

He forgot that he was on TV; he forgot that he was seeking the high office himself; he forgot everything except making his point in a steady stream of clear logic, firm argument and established fact. He was fully focused on his inquisitor.

"What about the issue of privacy? It’s under attack all the time. There are things no one else needs to know about each of us. And what about common decency? Everyone has some kind of handicap; it can be a disease, or a phobia, or a temper, or a debt, or a physical inability to throw a football. That must not stop each of us from striving to be the very best individuals we can be, _in spite of_ those handicaps. We have a right and a responsibility to the world to better ourselves, and we should be encouraging each other to do just that."

He stopped, for one disorienting moment actually unsure what to do next. In the resulting silence he needed a full two seconds to remember where he was and who was watching him. It required a tremendous effort not to gape at the huge cameras that had recorded every word and gesture, not to shrink from the spectacle that he had created, not to start explaining himself. For better or worse, he’d done that already.

The question was, how much _damage_ had he done?

How had this particular pundit managed to trip some hidden switch like that? Control during debates and interviews was essential, something he had never abandoned before in his entire political career. Not that he had railed and raged, but he had lost track – unheard of for him. Sure, he felt strongly about this subject... yet he still had to consider how his emphatic diatribe would play in the public eye.

If Phillippa’s impressed expression was any guide, it might not turn out to be quite so bad after all. Perhaps the reserved Vinick reputation _could_ handle some real energy now and then.

"Quite a pep talk, there, Senator. I for one enjoyed it."

That sounded like high marks.

Vinick didn’t smile, but he surreptitiously relaxed. "Well, I did come here expecting to discuss some issues..."

"And I want to hear more from you." His hostess turned to the camera lenses for the first time since they began. "Let’s take a brief break; we’ll be right back..."


	18. Sitting President, The 18

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 18:** _KELLY "COOP" COOPER_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

A bodyguard’s life is comprised of three principal elements: training, watching, and waiting. Training rigorously for the day when something nasty happens; watching alertly in the fervent hope of spotting that something _before_ it happens; waiting anxiously for that something to materialize in spite of everyone’s best efforts. A bodyguard experiences hours, days, months of nervous vigilance and grinding boredom, interspersed on rare occasions by seconds of sudden terror and furious action. The United States Secret Service embodies this preparedness for the worst, not just because of their premier reputation but also because of the man they protect... and the bald statistics for attempts on holders of that high office.

Kelly Cooper – "Coop" to his friends and colleagues – still had a hard time explaining to others why he would choose such a career: when he had a real possibility of dying on the job... and if he didn’t die, he faced years of standing in hallways and scanning noisy crowds. It really was difficult to put into words. The desire to serve his country and his leader – to protect both at all costs against whatever the forces of nature, the caprices of luck and the infinitely inventive criminal mind can dish out – overrode even the natural desire for self-preservation. Plus, there was a genuine cachet here as well. Members of this elite group were at the very pinnacle of their field, and people wanted to be good enough to belong despite the drawbacks.

Besides, when you got right down to basics, weighed against the welfare of the President of the United States, and thus the welfare of the United States overall, one bodyguard’s life shrank in importance.

Of course, all agents hoped to see an honorable retirement... but they would sooner die defending their protectee than live with the shame that they’d failed in their sworn duty and watched the _other_ person die. Many agents admitted that, considering all the different ways a person _can_ die, stepping in front of a bullet or a bomb blast could be a faster and less painful death than some other options, and provided a bracing element of heroism to boot. Still, you really have to be well-trained to protect others in advance of yourself, to move into danger rather than away from it. There was also a fatalistic preference to choosing your own style of death, and being assured that your life would truly count for something. But if they did their job right and events didn’t conspire against them, then their protectee would escape the fright, they would dodge the risk, the legions of evil would be denied the victory, and the public would be spared the horror and the sensationalism.

Every agent needed to shelve the job completely at the end of a shift; downtime was critical to mental and physical health in a job that demanded such intense mental and physical tension. Coop thanked God every day that he had such an understanding and supportive girlfriend. Many agents ended up sacrificing their relationships to the sheer stress of knowing that today might be the _last_ day. Kelly (Coop had adopted his nickname to cut down on the confusion when he and his beloved were in the same room) stood by him one hundred per cent, professing an ironclad conviction that they’d still be together well into old age. Her faith rubbed off on him, and he arrived at the White House each day determined to defeat all threats, instead of fearing such threats before they actually gained substance.

This combination of fatalism and confidence had another distinct benefit: he and Kelly never took each other for granted. He had learned to cherish all of his friends and family despite the petty arguments and annoyances that so often plagued human interaction. When he got together with any of them, he lived for the moment.

Personally, he figured the world would be a much happier place if more people did the same. Disputes and sulks, rage and revenge all chewed up priceless time that could never be reclaimed. His colleagues tended to agree with him.

Coop was glad to be back on "Eagle" detail. As a rule, agents were rotated out of the White House after three years; on the stress meter, this post far outdistanced all others. The Service had its own psychologist who regularly evaluated all operatives, checking for those who might be suffering from the work. Coop had been here for the first three years of Jed Bartlet’s administration, and he’d asked to return for the last three. Two years at a desk had practically driven him up the wall. Even Kelly, who had the most to lose after Coop himself from this transfer back into the heart of danger, admitted that he was himself again, doing what he was best at and what he loved most. Besides, surely the President’s bad luck _had_ to run out?

Coop hoped so, for more reasons than one. He deeply respected his protectee. He felt privileged to be relied upon by such a great man – especially now. Plus, he had earned the rare distinction of being one of the few agents whose name Bartlet actually remembered.

Speaking of names and _nick_ names, he still caught himself wondering now and then how the President’s parents had first come up with "Jed." "Josiah" really was a bit too regal for everyday usage, but the two names had very little in common. Most often people would use abbreviations, middle names, or initials; he could’ve wound up as "Joe," "Sy," "Edward" or "J.E." Coop had been lucky enough to choose his own sobriquet – he’d soon tired of being "the _other_ Kelly, the one with the _beautiful_ Kelly." On quiet evenings of hall duty, one’s mind often wandered along strange paths.

One aspect of being back here that he honestly could do without was the need to work shifts and holidays. Here it was, late afternoon on New Year’s Eve, and he should have been home planning a special evening with his red-haired girl. Instead, he stood on the South Lawn just outside Diplomatic Reception, waiting for the President to sign a new bill into law.

He still couldn’t believe they were doing this outdoors. Granted, the temperature had climbed freakishly to the point where the last snow had vanished and overcoats weren’t needed at all, the sun warm and cheerful no matter what the calendar said... but if the weather chose to take a sharp right turn, the agents would have the unpleasant task of coordinating a scramble for shelter. Consider the fancy documents, the sound system wiring, the cameras, the dignitaries and the President himself – who couldn’t just get up and trot indoors these days.

But "Eagle" had insisted. Perhaps he felt particularly well today and decided to flex his executive muscles... or perhaps he was simply suffering from cabin fever. The White House had been described before as the most luxurious prison in the world, and these days it was also his private hospital. In any case, Bartlet demanded that they take full advantage of this lovely day before the cold returned with a vengeance. He’d been further buoyed by the fact that the First Lady was not present at this time to countermand him. She probably would have, too.

So Coop found himself occupying a patch of winter-burned grass, a few short yards to the left of the signing table and just off the red carpet that had been laid out from the Diplomatic Entrance. This made him fully visible to the cameras already trained on that table. He acutely disliked that fact; it created a self-conscious nervousness. He’d much rather be on the outer circle and far more circumspect. Besides, Kelly enjoyed boasting whenever her man appeared on national TV.

In exchange, it also placed him right inside the bull’s-eye. Today he would be among the foremost of the front-line defenders. At least _that_ held no terrors; it was precisely what he had trained to do.

Certain aspects of security had changed quite a bit in the past two weeks. Most of the White House and the West Wing were wheelchair-accessible beforehand, and the remaining places fixed in short order, but planning away-trips became much more complicated, and outdoor locations were the worst of all. It would still be a good while before The Man’s physical condition permitted him to resume his old pattern of traveling frequently around D.C., much less around the country. By then the chair should be demoted to an unpleasant memory, which would alleviate _everyone_.

The security training regime had been altered as well, both in terms of weightlifting and with regard to procedures. Coop had taken part in several exercises featuring a non-ambulatory protectee and a heavy wheelchair. The President had had to go through them as well, allowing himself to be knocked out of his seat and lugged over various obstacles. While their reaction time remained unaffected, their removal time went up a lot, since he couldn’t yet aid in his own transportation no matter how much he might like to.

Coop had also been a silent witness to the private wheelie practices. Well, _almost_ silent; one or two muffled exclamations of concern had escaped when his protectee seemed in imminent danger of flipping over backwards. "Eagle" had gone about it carefully, so that he wouldn’t have to explain a spill or endure the consequences thereof – in bruises or in scolding. His pure delight at finally mastering the trick almost made his own bodyguards smile. Coop knew how those experiments _could_ have turned out; he’d been on hand for Josh Lyman’s overzealous attempt in the Oval itself, and he could discourse at length on the heart-in-the-mouth effect when _anything_ went "bang" inside the White House.

In addition, Coop had attended some of the President’s practice sessions with his crutches. He hated to witness that effort and weakness, but needed to be on hand in case of a fall. Bartlet’s generally upbeat attitude deserted him here; each tiny step was difficult and painful. For every additional minute spent on his feet, the demand on his legs, his arms and his fledgling balance went up exponentially. He needed and _wanted_ to walk again, but he seemed to be investing very hard work for the smallest of returns. It would be enough to bring anyone down.

His proficiency with the lightweight chair increased at a faster rate, no doubt since he spent more time navigating in it. At first he’d been so slow and laborious that the trailing agents held themselves to an equivalent of the slow military stepping pace, such as when carrying a casket. Now, especially when "Eagle" hit uncarpeted floor, his detail almost had to jog after him – a fact that tickled The Man no end. There were few ramps in the House, and going up them was not easy – if he couldn’t get a decent run at it, he’d need a boost. Going down, however, became a predictable hit; sometimes he detoured widely in order to exploit the thrill of acceleration. Fortunately, he hadn’t yet collided with anything or anyone. Perhaps _un_ fortunately, the public never saw these endearing moments of their elected leader behaving like a happy child.

Overall, his nursemaids felt reasonably safe granting him a greater range of privacy... privacy within the bounds of his position, of course.

Physiotherapy continued apace, a dreaded class that the President must’ve been sorely tempted to cut despite its essential role in his recovery. He complained of torture every time, but that was, indirectly, the point; no exertion meant no progress. His frustration persisted at the slow pace to his rehabilitation, and the considerable physical expenditure for relatively little obvious gain each time, and the boredom that was as much a part of repetitive exercise as the pain. To a mercurial mind such as this man had, the boredom was probably the worst torture of all; he couldn’t concentrate on a report, a book or even a decent conversation around the discomfort and the shortness of breath. He continued to push himself, though, with a single-minded conviction in eventual success, and they were starting to see some measurable improvement in both arm and leg strength.

One thing that had taken a perceptive trend downward was Bartlet’s menu. The First Lady worried that he might put on extra weight, since his caloric output had dropped so radically. Her husband might have appreciated her concern, but that was poor consolation. It really soured his mood at times, adding yet another straw to his already considerable transition and denying him one indulgence that a lot of people found solace in when under a great deal of pressure. Of course he knew it was for the best, but no one had heard him admit that yet.

As though a diet weren’t enough, he also couldn’t sneak out to the Rose Garden for a smoke. The uniformed officers on the West Portico still held the French doors for him, just like before, but all employees were under First Lady orders not to supply cigarettes. Despite the obvious disadvantage to his lungs, there must have been moments when Bartlet ached to rebel somehow against his plethora of restrictions. Even non-smokers could sympathize.

The receiver in Coop’s ear whispered a head’s-up, and he straightened to extra alertness. Moments later, the south entrance opened and the President appeared.

He glided smoothly along the carpet, propelled by Curtis as per normal. His entire senior staff trailed behind, as though whenever he left the Residence these days they didn’t like to let him out of their sight. He waved, looking quite well and not in the least uncomfortable. One might wonder if the people and The Man himself were starting to forget that there had ever been a time when he could walk.

Coop tore his eyes from this sight and went back to scanning the area, but he did offer another prayer of relief that the Russian conference yesterday had resulted in merely a bad fatigue attack after Bartlet’s over-exertion in so warm a setting. Nothing that uninterrupted sleep all night and most of today hadn’t cured. Still, for a while everyone had fully expected to postpone the signing and let the media circus go hang.

From day one "Eagle" had refused to be coddled like an invalid. Every single member of his detail admired his unrelenting drive for independence, and every single member regretted the infringements they had to make against that independence in order to safeguard him – not only from assault but from accident as well. Their numbers had gone up substantially around him. Getting their protectee in and out of the limo had become quite a symphony of choreographed effort, and they still had to maintain their usual tight surveillance second by second. They had always been prepared to bodily carry The Man out of a threat zone, especially if he were injured; now, the large-wheeled chair might be an advantage in a fast evacuation – or they might face staircases and other barriers and be forced to leave the chair behind, which would create additional problems since he could not walk at all. Then too, there were occasions where his body man, his secretary or his wife simply weren’t present to help him get from one seat to another. And there were times when the Secret Service mandate about always keeping their hands free likewise needed some flexibility; when Bartlet wheeled himself, he couldn’t carry a briefcase or a report or a cup of coffee. The only way to meet these new needs was to fortify the ranks, so that one or two agents could temporarily divide their attention without sacrificing safety.

Coop put these sobering thoughts out of his mind and continued to scan the crowd, picking out faces and gauging moods. Just because the guests comprised only special invitees and minimal press didn’t mean something couldn’t go wrong. It was one of the costs to this privilege of being permitted close enough to the President to do something suicidal. The cold truth was that the only person allowed near "Eagle" with a sharp or questionable object, excepting his family members, personal friends, closest staffers, security detail and diplomatic dinner guests, was his barber.

Coop’s constant surveillance swept past the senior staff. Today that included Leo, who, though he officially did not work in the White House anymore, was free to come and go just like before. Not only did he retain his security clearance, but his knowledge and his experience could hardly be repossessed by the government, and Bartlet wisely continued to tap that huge resource. Besides, just try to come between The Man and his best friend. Even the Secret Service thought better of their hides than that.

C.J. made use of the former Chief of Staff’s enduring wisdom as well. She had adapted very swiftly to her new position, but she never pretended to know everything right out of the gate. Her promotion had also left a gap further down the hierarchy, so Toby picked up the slack there. Normally he shunned the cameras but, whether because of his concern for a PR gaffe or his concern for his boss’s health, he had decided to put in an appearance today after all.

Coop knew these employees; they were constantly around his principal protectee, and in a crisis they had to be protected as well. (C.J. even had her own regular detail now, despite her reluctance.) Anyone would appreciate their dedication to the job, the endless hours they worked and the enormous efforts they made in the service of the President. When one thought about it, their roles paralleled the Service in certain ways: they had to protect their boss from a huge range of attacks and a wide variety of attackers, any of which might be merciless enough to end his career.

However, this very devotion involuntarily created a problem. Many White House employees, whether through patriotism or personal liking or both, might well take their own steps to defend their leader from a physical threat. When attending him at some event away from this fortress, they often conducted their own visual surveillance of the crowds and surroundings. The Service certainly comprehended such selfless willingness to risk oneself for another, and there was always the slim chance that one extra pair of eyes or one more body in the ring could make a crucial contribution... but these were still untrained amateurs, and in a panic they just might hinder the agents’ movements more than they helped. If anyone got caught in the crossfire, either by accident or because they deliberately tried to help protect the President themselves, then there would be that many more casualties to treat; and if they inadvertently obstructed an agent’s task, then everyone would feel horrible. It was a delicate dilemma, and one the Treasury Department was no closer to solving.

Any incident was far less likely to happen inside the White House Complex; yet, just the same, vigilance remained the rule. Coop never ceased his scrutiny, making periodic eye contact with fellow agents scattered all around. He loved this aspect – they were so well trained that they could read each other’s expressions with amazing accuracy at times. It came gratifyingly close to telepathy, and gave them a powerful weapon in their eternal war against nefarious intent. Each carried a covert two-way radio, of course, but just that sense of unity and comradeship made a huge difference in the mindset. None of them stood alone against the domestic and foreign assassins of the world, no more than their protectee did. Together they could handle any force out there.

Coop caught a glance from Ron Butterfield, a frowning pillar right behind the President’s left shoulder and looking taller than ever. The Special Agent in Charge of "Eagle" detail and ultimately the security of the whole White House had held that position throughout Bartlet’s term of office. As a rule, three-year stints were the maximum. Ron, however, was not only extremely good at his job but fiercely dedicated and – not so much of a surprise to those who worked with him – mentally strong enough to surmount the most unrelenting stress. He had seen this administration through seven years of intermittent chaos, he was directly responsible for the safety of the Chief Executive with the most extreme event record in American history, and still he showed not one sign of cracking under the colossal commission. Coop was impressed and more than a bit envious. Then too, replacing the Chief of Security, even for a little while, would have been far harder than rotating one more agent further down the line.

The President was speaking, describing this bill and the benefits it would provide. Coop very deliberately tuned him out. He could not afford to be distracted. He’d read about it in the paper tomorrow; he didn’t need to know any sooner. He often heard snippets of legislative planning as he stood in the West Wing halls or trailed "Eagle" from place to place, but little of those conversations made much sense to him since he dared not pay full attention. Wondering about political machinations had no place in a bodyguard’s work; he and his colleagues saved such views for after hours.

When his gaze next drifted past the table, Coop glimpsed Bartlet just as he put down one of several pens and pick up another. Imagine, using a different pen to sign each letter in one’s name. That had to break up the entire flow of the signature. The Man had done this any number of times in his tenure, though; he kept the motion and the ink flowing smoothly with practiced skill. Coop couldn’t watch, but he knew this ceremony had ended when the rapid shutter-clicking of the press died down. One bonus for being outside after all: they didn’t have to use flashes. All bodyguards hated that handicap to their vision.

Next came the reception line, where the President would hand out those historic pens to select individuals. Except for Curtis stepping forward briefly to wheel him around the table’s edge so that he could reach both the pens and the recipients without stretching, this procedure didn’t change. Well, the chair made things _look_ different, but no one commented aloud. The administration had embraced the theory that the more shown and the less said, the better for all. "Eagle" sat there in splendid solitude, no staff member near, greeting his constituents, using the talent that really mattered here: his personality.

Now more proximate than ever, just a few points off Bartlet’s starboard quarter, Coop ignored the snippets of conversation and the background murmurs as he scanned each person approaching. He wasn’t alone in this; at least two other agents also flanked the advancing line, suspicious even of special guests who had already been screened. That was their job.

Handing out fifteen pens and shaking fifteen hands didn’t take long, even given a certain world leader’s propensity for chatter. The line soon dwindled to nothing, the last person stepping back into the crowd...

In real-time it must have required barely two seconds – but it seemed to happen in sadistically slow motion, every fraction of an instant crystal-clear. The Man lowered both hands over the armrests, grasped the wheel-rails, and rotated them in opposite directions. The chair pivoted briskly clockwise, something gave a dull _snap_ , and the conveyance flipped instantly onto its side, spilling its occupant before anyone could so much as blink.

Coop didn’t waste nanoseconds pondering the mechanics that caused this. He launched himself forward at once and landed half on the toppled chair and half on the sprawled President, offering his own body as a barrier to destruction.

Instant chaos: just add danger.

The bodyguard heard the immediate storm of shouted orders and terrified screams, punctuated by the staccato instructions blaring through the comm. channel directly into his right ear. He saw the fast swirl of action as agents and staff members surged forward to surround him. He felt the hard framework of the chair digging into his abdomen, the weight of at least one more agent landing across his back, and the hard ground under his palms. But he focused solely on the man beneath him. The man who lay deathly still.

What had gone _snap_ like that? It didn’t sound like a shot, but if it was a new or modified weapon –

The President of the United States lay on his right side. The sudden upset had pitched him clear of the chair structure and dumped him on the hard ground with no little force. His limbs were slack, his suit rumpled, his hair tousled. The right arm pillowed his head; the left rested near his face, in a distinctly protective gesture. He looked for all the world like he had curled up in sleep. Eyes closed.

Was he breathing? Who could tell in this madhouse of sound?

"Don’t move, sir," Coop ordered as quietly as he could, hoping to still be heard over the noise on all sides. Praying that this man could still hear and respond to such orders. Praying that he _would_ move, at least a little, even though it’d be safer to hold still for the moment. Praying that irreparable damage hadn’t already been done.

"Not that you’re giving me much choice in the matter," a familiar baritone returned from close by.

Coop almost collapsed in sheer relief. There had been wry humor in that answer, and a liberal dose of humiliation – but no effort, no pain. On the other hand, "Eagle" had been joking in the ER after Rosslyn. Either way, the agent couldn’t relax even a smidgeon, and for more reasons than one; both arms were braced against his own mass and that of the men piled on top of him, trying not to crush the protectee they were all so desperate to protect.

Over the cacophony swirling in from all directions, one voice rose above the rest. "Find the cause of that!"

"Won’t have to look far." Bartlet held his pose, wisely not attempting to escape from the oppressive shadow looming directly over him... but he did look up now. "Will someone tell Ron that your culprit’s already in custody?"

"Sir?" Coop couldn’t help but blink in confusion.

"Sir?" Ron had heard that comment, even if he didn’t quite understand it.

Only the closest individuals could have heard as well. While the wider pandemonium ruled, a near-silence descended upon the inner circle. That single word could have been directed at only one man. If the President was well enough to speak –

"Eagle" was probably thinking much the same thing. He raised his volume. "My fault. My clumsiness. My inability to follow orders."

That made no sense to Coop, but it must have contained some meaning for the Chief of Security: his exhalation tingled with more annoyance than anything else.

"Secure perimeter. Confirm no breach." That carried over the radio channel as well. Coop gulped extra air as his colleagues drew back, especially the ones that had stacked themselves over him. His arms were trembling from the strain, and he knew he’d sport some vivid bruises tomorrow from the chair’s sharp edges digging into his torso and thighs. In this awkward position, he himself had to wait until one of those colleagues lent him a hand.

_"Visual sweep negative,"_ the radio reported dutifully.

Ron had to be absolutely sure there was no genuine threat; he couldn’t take his protectee’s word for it, however trustworthy _and_ likely that word might be. "No casualties here. Check the crowd, and calm them down while you’re at it. Explanation pending." His last sentence sounded like a threat directed at the cause.

By now Coop could see more than just three square feet of grass. A solid wall of agents ringed the tipped-over chair and its former occupant, guarding against the twin perils of physical attack and media view. Just beyond that ring, three White House staffers and one presidential aide hovered anxiously, not yet allowed to approach and clearly not satisfied with the little they’d glimpsed so far.

The object of their concern had moved at last. He couldn’t rise unassisted, and might find even sitting up a bit of a trick on his own, so he contended himself with propping his head up on his right hand and just letting everything take its course.

"Mr. President?" Formal address regardless, Ron’s tone demanded elucidation. He was entitled to it, too.

"I’m fine." The Man lifted his voice, obviously wanting to be heard. "My front wheel hit something. Nothing hit _me_."

That statement carried well in the strange quiet hovering around them. The barometer of human tension began a perceptive slide downward.

Coop experienced a sudden, vivid flashback: driving the executive limousine away from the Newseum shooting almost six years ago. For the first minute of that wild ride he had believed that, regardless of any other casualties, his premier passenger was all right. Then the anguish when he learned that his own boss had been hit, and the bitter knowledge that he couldn’t do one damned thing about it... and then the horror of suddenly hearing that the man under their joint protection had not escaped unscathed after all – had in fact been bleeding all along.

_This_ incident had thankfully turned out to be the exact opposite. Better a thousand unnecessary alerts than one genuine crisis.

Coop remained inside the defensive ring; he had been the first agent to react and would shortly need to report on his actions. This gave him a convenient seat to the subsequent proceedings. He got the distinct feeling that their Chief Executive would be answering for his own actions in another moment.

Ron had already bent to examine the chair. "Front shaft snapped off clean." He held it up. That would explain the _crack,_ all right. "No scoring; it wasn’t struck by a projectile. No sign of other damage, either." Then he felt around the ground for a few seconds. "Here – a depression in the ground, about an inch deep, hidden under the carpet."

The chain of events made sense now. When the President swung his chair around, the front wheel hit this low spot in the frozen earth, which no one knew was there, and he must’ve hit it at the worst possible angle for the metal to fracture like that. After losing a quarter of its stability while still being propelled with some energy, no wonder the chair capsized.

Before anyone could say anything else, Bartlet claimed the floor. Or the ground. "I think I’ve loafed around enough." His tone edged towards command. "Give me a hand – and the first person to do so by applauding is fired."

Quiet amusement, backed by relief, rippled from the senior staffers as they were finally permitted access. Considering the fright their boss had just given them, they kept the fussing to a minimum. After all, the reporters were straining for every possible word and photo. Slowly, helped on all sides, "Eagle" was lifted to his feet. Teetered precariously for a few seconds... found his balance, with help... and stood.

There would be no sneaking away from the cameras. In silence, everyone agreed to put the best face on it. The President took a few seconds to straighten his hair. C.J. adjusted his tie; Toby brushed grass and dirt smudges from his blazer.

For one moment Coop flashed back again – though much more benignly this time. To his childhood, and his mother helping him dress formally for a wedding. The fact that everyone around was taller than the man in the center of all this attention lent credence to the similarity.

Curtis appeared, pushing the substitute executive chair. Coop had never seen him leave; the burly body man was surprisingly discreet for his size.

Bartlet waved him back. "Not yet."

Jaws dropped.

He waved at his senior staff, too. "A little space, please. Leo, stay."

The others edged away, not happy but obedient.

Next he waved at his security detail. "Stand aside."

"Sir..." That was Ron’s warning rumble.

The Man met his glare without flinching. "You’ve cleared the place. We’re safe. I’m well. Let’s prove it."

Slowly, hesitantly, after a stern pause and then a sterner nod from their chief, the agents complied.

There he was, revealed to the guests and the media alike. Alive and unhurt. And _standing_ , with only his best friend to subsidize his balance.

There was one brief second of stillness – and then an outbreak of cheers.

Coop had to admit that it was a really heartening sight. Bartlet didn’t waver, feet braced, knees locked. Leo was a rock-steady stabilizer with a firm grip on one arm, and Curtis lingered right behind in case that wasn’t sufficient... Even so, their leader stood before them. The guests and spectators burst into applause. (He couldn’t fire _them._ ) The photographers clicked enthusiastically away – but after the first few seconds they noticed the ferocious looks from C.J. and Toby, a clear signal not to overdo it with the pictures.

And speaking of overdoing it, "Eagle" took care not to push his luck. For once he kept his words very brief. "Sorry about that, folks." His strong voice projected across the lawn. "I misjudged things a bit. Didn’t mean to scare you."

The people were revealed in turn. Many looked a bit ruffled, as though they’d hugged the turf in fear of the naturally suspected gunfire. Some were probably still clutching their hearts, too relieved that they did not actually come under fire to think of much else. But they appeared to have also escaped injury, and the President’s well-being should help a few recover faster. From the growing number of smiles, the majority understood what had happened and appreciated his apology. It had been an accident.

Having resolved that angle, Bartlet gave Curtis the high sign to move the new chair into place, and graciously allowed himself to be placed in it.

Coop dared to ease up just one tiny degree –

"Ron."

So much for ease.

The Special Agent in Charge must have been slightly taken aback to be addressed in such an open venue; security matters were always discussed in private. Few indeed would be able to overhear, but this was still taking up time in the public eye. He hid his opinion well, though. "Mr. President."

"I owe you an apology, too."

Planted firmly behind the unemotional game face that was an essential part of every bodyguard’s equipment, Coop felt the urge to raise eyebrows. Again, no one much beyond arm’s reach heard this, but many who could hear performed that expression for him.

"For the scare, and for any bruises I caused." Bartlet stopped short of mentioning his own, though he had to have _some_. He might have figured that he deserved them. "I was showing off," he admitted with a definitely embarrassed note. "I wanted to demonstrate that I could move myself around a bit. Prove to the country I don’t need help all the time. I wasn’t trying to make your job harder."

No one blamed him for having MS in the first place, or for needing the chair to get around. This mishap had arisen from an attempt to be more independent, and who could blame him for that either? No, he was apologizing for how his condition affected not only his ability but also a lot of people around him. He felt responsible on a few levels, not the least of which was the added burden he clearly saw himself as being to his own protectors.

"You were right all along about the heavier chair. I’m used to the lighter model, and I overcompensated. I won’t try it again."

He looked like he expected to be reprimanded right here and now, by one of the very few people legally entitled to do so.

Ron accepted this confession without comment. His silence implied that a formal reproof could wait until later.

The Man grinned now, changing the atmosphere completely. "It paid off in fair dividends, though. Our training sessions are most effective. But I never planned to implement the falling lessons myself."

"Now you know, sir." That was as close to _"I told you so"_ as Ron would likely ever come.

Bartlet interpreted the hint loud and clear. The rueful shade returned to his smile. "Do I ever." He shifted in his chair, as though settling back down to business. "Now, shall we wrap up the festivities on a proper note?"

Coop interpreted this for the order it was and stepped back, resuming his previous place as sentry. His adrenaline level was slowly returning to normal.

He dearly hoped Kelly hadn’t seen the live TV coverage. She’d be far less shocked, and far less worried about him, if she caught a rerun of the false alarm when everyone already knew it was false.

He was grateful beyond words that it _had_ been false. Still, he had reacted fast enough and used correct procedure. He and his colleagues had done their jobs right.

And he thought the President was coming along very well. Now, please God there would be no more setbacks... or scares...


	19. Sitting President, The 19

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 19:** _KATE HARPER_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

In the White House, the legislation ultimately in effect was not the Constitution of the United States – it was Murphy’s Law. If anything can go wrong, it will.

The Deputy National Security Advisor sat in the Situation Room, surrounded by the top brass of the Armed Forces. This was the subterranean vault in the basement of the West Wing that few people indeed were permitted to enter. The supersensitive nerve center of American military power. The ultra-secure chamber with up-to-the-minute information on trouble spots anywhere in the country and almost anywhere in the world.

Personally, Kate didn’t like this place. It was too dark; she could easily see the projected displays, but less easily read the human expressions. The chairs were too soft; something in her nature distrusted too much comfort when vigilance was imperative. The ceiling was too low; it hovered right overhead, pressing down, confining her.

She didn’t like this atmosphere. Sound hardly carried at all... which prevented vital data from escaping, true, but the closeness induced a compulsion to whisper – or to shout. The oxygen literally felt thick... no doubt with the weighty information and the price of life that inevitably hung in the balance. The very air seemed to tremble and murmur on its own... perhaps remembering all the lives already lost through past decisions made here.

She didn’t like some of these people overmuch, either, despite her own military training and her innate tolerances. The Joint Chiefs: most of them veterans from combat, true, yet sometimes so supremely confident in their experience and their rightness that they didn’t pursue all nonviolent options as thoroughly as they could. Miles Hutchinson: the civilian Secretary of Defense who was a politician trying to be a warrior and sometimes not quite making the connection. General Alexander: forged by recent explosive incidents into the most hawkish Chairman in a decade. Even Nancy McNally: the first woman to rise to the position of NSA and a worthy mentor, with a diamond-hard core from which the job and the Situation Room certainly benefited, but at times just a bit _too_ emotionally detached for comfort.

She most definitely did not like the current topic of debate. Nothing talked about in here could be considered lightweight, but this particular scenario would have wider global repercussions than usual. It also promised more than a few executive repercussions to boot.

And she sure didn’t like this calendar date. It was New Year’s Day. They should all be at home, sleeping off the celebrations of the night before, whipping up a big family supper, watching football, or just savoring the last statutory holiday this side of Easter.

Here, Murphy’s Law reigned.

Here, the fate of nations would be decided.

Kate saw one tiny flicker of a bright spot: this was the first serious development since the Chinese summit, and it had managed to wait until more than two weeks after the President’s return. He’d made quite a lot of progress in that interval. Imagine if something had blown up ten days ago instead, when his maximum capability averaged an hour and a half of work per day. By contrast, today the odds were good that he’d be up to the task of commanding the full strength of the last and greatest superpower on earth.

Alexander hung up the phone before him. That decisive click halted all conversation; everyone knew his next words would directly affect their subsequent course of action.

"The President’s en route."

No one said a word. Glances and nods made the round of the long conference table, though, and Kate read the emotion behind them as clear as day. They could stop worrying about whether or not their Commander-in-Chief could respond to their urgent invitation, and worry instead about what he would do once he got here.

The youngest person present by far, save for a Captain standing against the back wall (who did not have a seat at the table and therefore no voice in the proceedings), one of only two women and only three people not in uniform, Kate sat still and waited. She possessed a sizable amount of direct experience with international military dealings – experience partly gained under enemy fire – but even that couldn’t make her feel totally at home in such intimidating company. And Commander Harper didn’t intimidate easily.

According to muttered comments exchanged in this room during The Man’s absence, and dropped hints in the Oval Office by The Man himself, Jed Bartlet wasn’t all that comfortable here either. In fact, it was the part of his job that bothered him the most: having to juggle countries and armies like so many chess pieces, having to parcel out soldiers in wholesale lots and gamble with their lives... and having to see the coffins come home. And yet, by all reports – even from these bigwigs who tended to feel awkward around any supreme commander with no military service and therefore no in-depth military knowledge – he had learned fast and managed well, he was far less daunted by his civilian’s ignorance in these circles, and he brought a strong human compassion to the pragmatic calculation of gains and losses.

If Kate were any judge, today would pit that pragmatism against that compassion with exceptional vehemence. Her higher-ranking companions shared the same view, hence the extra undercurrent of tension.

She surreptitiously checked her wristwatch. Constitutionally the President had to respond to any summons from Congress; a summons from _this_ chamber, however, inspired a far higher degree of alacrity. No one had to remind him how much impact a few minutes could make here. Sometimes in the past he’d even run down the stairs. Today, however, he had to take the elevator... and the elevator to the basement was more than halfway down the hall.

Then again, factoring in the reason for this particular meeting, he’d insist upon alacrity, even if it meant being carried down the nearest staircase right in his chair. Such a maneuver would require several pairs of hands, plus a control over physical balance that also would not have been possible ten days ago. Either way, it wouldn’t be long...

The double doors started to swing inward, heralded by only a soft click of the latch. Already facing in that direction, Kate noticed at once.

Alexander did as well; he’d been watching for it. "Ten-hut!"

That order brought all military personnel not already standing to their feet at once. The Secretary of Defense and the National Security Advisor joined them willingly as a matter of respect to their national leader.

The shuffling of their chairs and clothing almost drowned out the conversation that carried in from outside... almost.

"I’m sick of everyone looking at me askance these days!" A strident baritone reverberated ahead like a royal trumpeter. "If one more person mutters _‘Poor guy’_ behind my back, I swear I won’t be responsible for my actions."

Kate’s nervousness received a fresh boost. The President hadn’t even waited to get in here before ramping up his argumentative mood. Bad enough that the Joint Chiefs hardly ever put him in a _better_ mood, without him arriving already spoiling for a fight. And she would bet a lot that he’d fully intended his statement to carry before him and warn this council about one approach they’d be wise to avoid. As entrances went, it deserved an award.

C.J. was pushing the chair, since no body man had clearance to enter. She too had made fine progress establishing her image in these soldiers’ conservative eyes: the new Chief of Staff, the first _female_ Chief of Staff, and another political advisor with no military expertise, yet extremely proficient. This service, however, for one instant gave her almost a motherly air.

Interestingly, Leo had opted to accompany them. It made sense: he was no less reliable or knowledgeable now than before his heart attack, and any attempt to deactivate his old security rating would have met with furious opposition from the Oval Office itself. He didn’t need an official title or a private office in the West Wing to remain a very close and very wise executive advisor. Besides which, the Chiefs _liked_ Leo. He understood them and their jargon, and they knew he would translate for them when Bartlet didn’t comprehend. Plus, C.J. was still early in her learning curve, no matter how fast she’d settled in, and needed explanations that Leo would have grasped automatically. A sensible manager doesn’t refuse guidance from such a skilled predecessor, and a sensible leader naturally wants all the reliable help he can get.

This train of logic didn’t reassure Kate as much as it should. She had crossed swords with Leo before on security matters, and on at least one occasion the President had taken her counsel over his. Leo wasn’t so vain as to believe that he couldn’t be wrong, or so petty as to rank his close friendship to their Commander-in-Chief above all the other viewpoints in this room when the safety of the nation was at stake... but, on a subconscious level, he had quite likely become used to Bartlet relying on his opinion. Also, at the time of Kate’s most recent persistence in his presence, there had been a hint of a painful rift between him and his oldest friend, which he must have felt was further exacerbated by this young officer’s outspoken opposition. To him, it might well have seemed that she was setting their leader up for a fall that day, encouraging him to pursue impossible dreams and adding to his political risk.

It hadn’t been her intention at all – and it thankfully hadn’t turned out that way, either. All the same, she resolved to keep her head down today, unless she had a really critical contribution to make. The instinct to protect The Man would be stronger than ever these days.

The two Marines on usher duty swung the doors shut. The membership of women present had risen to three, and the number of civilians to five.

"Let’s start off the New Year on the right foot here," Bartlet groused. He made it sound more like a threat than a wish.

Kate wondered briefly what the senior officers around her saw and thought. They could certainly appreciate recruits crippled by war or veterans crippled by age. Was this so very different? Also, at least one of them looked old enough to have lived during World War II and a President crippled by polio. Again with the ghost of FDR. Would that parallel with such a revered historical figure provide an extra dash of deference, or would it only increase the discomfort?

All three newcomers were in casual attire, unusual for a regular business day but perfectly understandable on a holiday... although it accentuated the contrast against the two rows of uniforms even more. It also delivered a message as to the sequence of events here: the rest of the Joint Chiefs had been alerted well enough in advance to dress for the occasion, and they had held off notifying the President as long as possible, until forced to admit that the situation would not resolve itself. That followed standard procedure – they needed to have some idea of what to tell their Commander-in-Chief before he actually arrived – but it did nothing to ease the underlying polarity.

Kate had confessed to certain others that she currently enjoyed no social life. Coming into work today did not infringe upon her private agenda at all. She wasn’t sure if the same could be said for Leo or C.J. – but such a state absolutely did not apply to the President. It seemed profoundly unjust to disrupt his time off, given the state of his health... the little time he ever had with his family... his personal stake in the problem now before them...

The boardroom chair at the head of the table had already been moved to a back corner – a thoughtful move, since switching seats in this most time-conscious of conference rooms would be a real delay and would also draw unnecessary attention to its replacement. The wheelchair nudged up to the polished table. That sent a signal for everyone else to sit down as well.

And suddenly the difference in chair structure became almost invisible. As Kate settled into her own place, she remembered her conversation with Will two days ago... and her visit to the Residence at the wrong moment. She remembered the effort The Man had expended just to walk down the hall.

Right now The Man radiated a similar effort – but it appeared to be directed towards containing his temper.

He threw out his first pitch without any preliminaries. "North Korea, General?"

The former Chief of Staff assumed a stance against the back wall, observing silently, yet clearly prepared to take part if invited. C.J. opened her notes, ready to channel her own extensive acumen. But the President did not feel the need for rallying his administrative troops at this moment. Nothing was going to stand in his way today.

Alexander straightened in his chair just a bit, as though addressed by a superior officer – which he had been. "Yes, sir. We’ve received reports of independent nuclear ventures in three different cities over the past seventy-two hours. They’re just too timely and too similar to be pure coincidence."

"By ‘independent,’ I take it they’re not at the approved military locations and _theoretically_ not sanctioned by the authorities." Nothing wrong with the Bartlet brain, that was for sure.

"Universities," Hutchinson confirmed shortly.

Kate expected an outburst of astonishment, but it never came. The President tipped his head, aiming his lowered brows and fiery vision at his Secretary of Defense. In fact his entire posture angled a few points sideways, the way he had of leaning into the question – as though on the verge of charging the respondent should the response not be swift. It was a technique that demanded detailed clarification _now._

It worked. Nancy bit the bullet with her usual bluntness. "Three teams of engineering students are conducting their own experiments with miniature atomic piles. All of them say it’s an academic project. They supposedly obtained their samples from a local retired science professor – who of course can’t be found for comment. Again, too much of a sameness for my liking. We couldn’t pull that off _here_ , and we’ve got seventy times their area."

"But barely ten times their population. The ratio of _universities_ would be a more telling comparison."

"Moot either way. The North Korean government claims ignorance as to where this yet-to-be-identified professor could have gotten hold of uranium samples, but normally even the black market won’t touch that kind of stuff." Then Hutchinson reconsidered. "Not at prices an ordinary student could afford, at least."

Alexander picked up the thread. "So either they’ve been floated a very big loan by someone with money to burn, or else the government _wanted_ it to be available – and therefore _made_ it available."

"How much gray-market, bargain-priced uranium are we talking about, exactly?" Bartlet asked with frigid sarcasm and dangerous calm. News like this certainly would not encourage a low blood temperature.

"Less than half a gram each. Enough to generate a few theatrical sparks." Nancy’s tone did not indicate relief at such a small amount. _Any_ radioactive element can be dangerous – especially since, where you could get some, you could get more.

"And enough to see if one of those engineering teams has a really sharp mind among them," Hutchinson added morosely.

Alexander nodded. "Which just might lead to an extra jump forward in North Korea’s _official_ nuclear program in the not-so-distant future."

The President’s eyes narrowed. "You think the government is behind this friendly little competition? That they’re really talent-scouting?" His tone implied a grudging admission that it was a pretty clever idea, despite its potential to cause American headaches.

"That, or some eccentric private multimillionaire with a really questionable taste in hobbies and a _very_ esoteric oddments cupboard. Which is not much better for an option, as far as we’re concerned."

Kate silently acknowledged that argument, even as she mulled over who was doing the actual experimenting. As the Joint Chiefs had already agreed among themselves, it sounded way too familiar. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself, but something needed to be said in The Man’s presence –

C.J. beat her to it. "Does this remind anyone of the independent scientists in _South_ Korea just before the China summit?"

Kate released a thankful breath. But then, that incident took place only two and a half weeks ago. In addition, C.J. had been present when that diplomatic problem surfaced while they were en route to Beijing... literally moments before an _executive_ problem detonated.

"Right," Nancy agreed. "And they had less than half as much material to play with. We think the North Koreans are being copy-cats – or rather, they’re pretending to be."

"And how do you propose we handle this breach of copyright?" Bartlet demanded.

They all knew he wouldn’t like the answer. So did he.

"A phone call to the President of South Korea worked last time," C.J. reminded them firmly, obviously hoping for a peaceable solution.

"It worked because the President of South Korea didn’t have a direct hand in those lab workers," Alexander growled. "We have no reason to believe that’s the case here. Also, the President of South Korea is not a communist, and we _know_ that’s not the case here."

Kate noted absently how people can automatically take one person’s word for something, and yet just as automatically refuse to take another person's word – sometimes with cause, but still a dangerous practice. It seemed that "communism" retained the power to set off klaxons in certain individuals’ psyche.

"It’s still worth a try. Even if we prove later that he lied through his teeth, no one can say we didn’t give a nod to courtesy first –"

"Different country, different politics, different approach," Hutchinson sniped back. Kate resisted the urge to shake her head. The Defense Secretary was no great fan of the new Chief of Staff, as though convinced she just could not understand how to play in the big leagues, and he didn’t make much effort to hide the fact.

C.J. had grown out of her initial affliction of nerves in this chamber; she refused to give an inch. "It’s a ten-minute phone call!"

"It’s a waste of time. We have no club to threaten them with."

"And we have another problem." Nancy quietly yet resolutely claimed the floor, diffusing this particular contention point. "If we treat _North_ Korea exactly the same as we did _South_ Korea, some of our international allies will not be impressed by our restraint."

"Starting with South Korea." Alexander gestured towards the huge map of that global region lighting up the room’s front wall. "Japan is another. And how about China? Then there’s the little matter of Russia."

All four of which were scheduled to meet with North Korea _and_ the United States in April to work out a peaceful compromise all round.

Bartlet said nothing, but his hands, previously folded before him, had closed into fists, and the blue flame in his eyes was mounting. Kate resisted the urge to hold her breath. It was always a bad idea to bring The Man in before they got their game plan together. He never enjoyed listening to the home team argue amongst itself.

Nancy must have seen these warning signs as well; her vision never shifted from him. Yet she had no choice but to persevere with all of the unwelcome facts. "This can’t be just a bunch of adolescents playing with fire. Three groups obtaining that much restricted radioactive material at the same time? The situation here is very different to South Korea last month."

"And _that_ situation was published worldwide," Hutchinson jumped in fast, as though pressing his advantage. "Everyone knows what happened there, and what we did about it. Everyone will be watching very closely to see what we do this time."

Alexander was nodding again. "We use a firmer hand with North Korea, and it sends a clear message to the rest of the world: this kind of cheap camouflage won’t work. We’re not accepting _student project_ as an excuse for rogue governments to get around sanctions or inspections. No one thumbs their noses at us."

"Quite justifiable." The President’s curt agreement startled Kate, and perhaps several others. "We also don’t want kids blowing up their schools, and we don’t want kids being groomed for the next generation of mad scientists."

Hutchinson actually stuttered a bit; clearly he had expected objection rather than endorsement. "Uh – exactly, sir!"

"So, what shall we do about this? Suspend the students? Fire the teachers? Overthrow the government?"

Ah, that sounded more like the kind of reaction Kate had anticipated. She shot a fast glance at C.J., who still wore an expression of uncertainty. Leo, by contrast, seemed less surprised; his history with this man might have seen it coming early.

And then she looked at The Man. Was it just the lighting in here, or had his complexion deepened in hue a wee bit... from convalescing pallor towards angry crimson?

His voice was still ominously level. "One solution would be to confiscate every atom of nuclear material in the country. But of course they could always shop elsewhere, so we’d better get hold of their reactors as well. And just in case they think about building new ones, we could gut their whole technology base while we’re at it. That will have the added bonus of reducing their army to bows and arrows. Solve _everyone’s_ problems in one blow."

They all grasped at once where he was going with this. No one got the chance to interrupt, however. The Bartlet reactor had begun to cascade.

"So we should send in as many troops as it takes to overrun the place entirely. No one can say we don’t have the capability. Who cares how many lives it costs on _either_ side, so long as we pull North Korea’s teeth once and for all? Think of the deaths and the ulcers we’d be preventing in the long run, _and_ the bother of a prolonged summit in the spring. The end justifies the means. Never mind what the U.N. might have to say about it, or any _other_ civilized nation, or any decent citizen. _We’re_ in charge here – we have the strength to override any vote and any army. What’s the point of having all this muscle if you don’t use it? And we _have_ used it before. Better stay in practice!"

Yes, that was definitely a tinge of red to the President’s features. His volume rose, as though to match his escalating blood pressure. The dim lighting threw dark shadows around his upper face, out of the depths of which his blazing vision speared each spectator in turn.

"And while we’re at it, let’s chuck aside all the good I just accomplished in China, because we simply can’t be seen by our allies to be polite to a communist country, lest that should make us look egalitarian – which translates directly as _weak_. So I flew halfway around the world and sacrificed my own health, my ability to walk, in a totally useless attempt at a pie-in-the-sky dream of international peace. You know, if I hadn’t stuck it out with the Chinese President so long on that last day, it’s not beyond the realm of possibility that this chair of mine would already be history."

Kate throttled back a gasp. The stillness of the others around her was complete. Surely he wouldn’t exaggerate at a time like this, about something like that... but if it were true? And now he figured that his own people wanted him to throw that diplomatic miracle, and that exorbitant _personal_ cost, away...

On the fringe of her awareness, she sensed C.J. rising from her seat and Leo taking a step forward. She could spare no effort to watch, though. Her entire being was riveted on the man at the head of the table.

He continued to gather momentum, arms waving now in furious emphasis. "I made that decision because I believed peace was the best option and a realistic one. How impractical of me. Why did I put myself out? My effort and intent and good will seem to have somewhat limited the options of the United States; the moment a new hot spot flares up, my highest-ranking advisors in foreign affairs find it far more expedient to toss the Beijing results through the nearest window. The ink is barely dry on that seating arrangement, and it’s already lost what little meaning it ever had! _Everyone_ breaks treaty agreements these days, so why should I be any different? No one will hold me to it! I can do whatever the hell I please!"

That wasn’t quite true, but no one said so. Kate shrank back just a bit, in something disturbingly close to fear. Fear of the rage erupting before her. A rage such as she had never witnessed in this man before and doubted that many others here had either. A rage born from the depths of the soul. A rage that put nuclear fission to shame.

Surely no one in this chamber felt any different, no matter what kind of war history they might have. They’d anticipated that he would not like their advice on this quandary, they knew he was probably tired and possibly on some kind of medication... but none could have predicted a passion that bordered on frenzy.

He paused to draw breath and keep right on going –

"Mr. President?"

He stopped in mid-gesticulation and jerked to his left. _"What?"_ The irritation of being cut off in mid-rant shaved razor-sharp edges to his tone.

All attention swung to the White House Chief of Staff. She stood near the double doors, which were just closing again. Unlike the previous instance, this time Kate had never realized they’d opened. What...?

"That was the Secret Service."

Even those elite bodyguards were not permitted in here, so they always waited right outside. If something had happened, something so important that they couldn’t wait for their protectee to emerge from a vital council on international activity, then it had to be a critical matter.

The change to the leader of the free world was instantaneous. The bright gleam in his eyes shifted at once from fury to fear. Every witness knew that he’d completely jettisoned all thoughts on North Korea in a single heartbeat, as though hit by a slap of cold water. First guess: worst-case scenario. Danger to one of his family?

Kate turned from him to C.J. – and frowned. She didn’t know the former Press Secretary too well, but that sure looked like an attempt to hide a smile... and how could that be?

"Nothing important, sir." Yes, she was struggling between anxiety and amusement. "They just wanted to check on your physical welfare. Apparently every medical alarm in the control room is squealing right now."

Dead silence. Expressions started to slide...

Bartlet exhaled. Looked down at his clenched fists on the tabletop. Then, slowly, he used his left hand to push up the right sleeve of his powder-blue sweater, to reveal the deceptively-simple silver bracelet on his right wrist.

Kate had noticed its sudden, unexplained appearance last week, and had guessed at its function as being something along these lines, but she hadn’t expected such a dramatic demonstration of its effectiveness.

From the looks of things, The Man agreed with her. He stared at the medical monitor in equal parts disgust and embarrassment – most likely at both his display of temper and the Joint Chiefs seeing just how closely he was being watched. Some of the brass might have known about the bracelet before this, but that fact would hardly ease the sting.

"Knew I should’ve left the thing in the Residence."

"But then they’d think you didn’t have a pulse at all," C.J. countered quietly.

She had to be making a deliberate point about the monitor’s importance; the Service followed him everywhere and watched over him constantly, electronic data or no. Still, her sober choice of words made Kate flinch.

Bartlet emitted a snort. "Next time I’ll pass it off on someone else. Let the doctors chase _them_ for a change."

He closed his eyes as the physical effects of his tantrum began to make themselves felt. His heart had to be hammering, and he was definitely breathing a bit too fast.

No one spoke; with every quiet second his vital signs were subsiding further below the red zone, and the atmospheric pressure dropped proportionately to a far more bearable level. In this deferential pause, Kate saw the officers seated closest to her relaxing in their seats, and trying not to be obvious about it.

She saw Alexander and Hutchinson trade a glance of what could only be guilt: guilt that both of them were largely responsible for putting such a fearful strain on their leader’s still-fragile condition.

She saw Nancy peer down the table as if merely awaiting new orders, yet with just the faintest glint of apprehension in her guarded vision.

"And I thought I was tied down before..." Bartlet muttered, more to himself than anyone else. As though the Secret Service didn’t restrict his movements enough, now he had the whole medical staff peering at computer consoles, watching for every jump in his pulse.

There had been good reason to do so today. Because of _them._

"Where were we?" Nancy asked, her voice softer than Kate for one had ever heard it.

"A phone call to Pyongyang," Hutchinson replied almost as softly.

C.J. spun his way, no doubt torn between pleasure that this stubborn politician had decided to accept her suggestion after all and distress that it took presidential trauma to make him consider a nonviolent option.

Alexander likewise shifted his stance without actually admitting it. "But not to their President."

"And not by _our_ President, either. If someone else makes the contact, it would be a subtle reprimand. It was top man to top man for South Korea; these guys don’t deserve the same honor."

"Right. That’ll get the message across in spades."

"As long as we don’t actually _insult_ them. That’s never a good plan for dealing with people messing around with enriched uranium in uncontrolled environments."

Ironic: mere minutes ago, both had vehemently opposed this solution. Now, suddenly they were all for it. How attitudes can change – with the right incentive.

Nancy tilted her head from one to the other. "So a call to the head of their military?"

"But not by me," the Secretary of Defense said at once. "They won’t have much respect for a civilian."

"Rule me out for the same reason."

"And I’d better not, either." Alexander looked down. "I’m a little too annoyed to play the game right now."

A question to ponder: was said annoyance caused by the anguish his leader felt over this whole mess... or by the fresh understanding of his own tendency to take the tough stance? Kate’s evaluation of him shifted slightly. If he was insightful enough to recognize such a tendency in himself, then he was a man that could be trusted.

So far, the Deputy NSA hadn’t said a word. But the time had come to do so.

"I’ll do it."

The National Security Advisor looked her in the eye. "Thank you, Kate." Three simple words that acknowledged her subordinate’s skill in diplomacy and in debate. Then she turned to the others, searching for dissention in this choice, and finding none. "What else will Commander Harper need to know?"

Leo chose that moment to speak up. "Why don’t we leave you to it."

That was _his_ first contribution, which automatically drew everyone’s attention. His actions cemented it: he moved forward to stand right behind the President’s shoulder, a protective posture that the Secret Service itself could not have bettered.

And suddenly everyone saw why.

Bartlet’s earlier exertion had cost him dearly. He slumped in his chair, staring at the tabletop in a fog of weariness and no longer really listening. His face had lost the last of its color and displayed visible beads of perspiration.

The scent of regret in the air intensified. No one thought to object to a dignified withdrawal from the battlefield.

Well, almost no one. "I’m fine," their Commander-in-Chief insisted with what little energy he had left. Which wasn’t much.

No one believed him. He probably knew it... probably guessed that whenever he used that line, few people took him on his word anymore. Which probably drove him crazy at times.

"Sir, you can’t do any more here for now. They’re on it." Leo cornered the market on sympathetic but firm.

His leader prepared to rebel, but one tired glance behind established that his old friend was inflexible on this point. He let out a sigh of defeat. "Why did I bring you back on the payroll when I have all those other watchdogs?"

"Because you can hide from them, but you can’t hide from me." Old friends know best how to soothe the aches, and humor is one of the best ointments ever. "Let’s go."

"Thank you for coming, Mr. President." From his tone, Alexander meant every word. A lot had been accomplished in a very short time, thanks to a very strong executive argument.

Too drained to fully appreciate the victory his outrage had won, The Man merely lifted his head. "Keep me posted," he ordered, his faint volume on the verge of wavering.

If Hutchinson had been military, he might well have saluted. "Of course, sir."

That Bartlet humor couldn’t resist a muttered parting shot. "Happy New Year."

He probably meant that as sarcasm, referring to just how narrowly they’d avoided a disastrous military initiative. What a way to begin his last year in office. And yet it was true: that very avoidance had preserved the hope of peace. Not bad for a day’s work.

None of them missed the expressive look that Leo traded with C.J. Their faces were mirror images of concern. She just nodded to him, then rotated back and announced, "I’ll stay." Not only would she pursue their new mandate, but she would also brief their leader on the final outcome, thereby saving him the demand of another trip downstairs.

In silent unison, the Joint Chiefs rose. Slowly, carefully, Leo eased the chair around and rolled its listless passenger towards the exit.

Kate guarded her expression with an effort. The former Chief of Staff had always been the best Bartlet-watcher, and his current unofficial status gave him even more time to stand back and just observe. He’d seen what none of them in their deliberations had taken time to notice, and she thanked God for it.

Another flash of thought: where was the First Lady right now? Hopefully not in the Residence; she’d be ready to dismember anyone who returned her husband in such a state. Leo deserved a medal for courage.

All at once, compelled by an instinct she didn’t stop to question, Kate left her place and hurried after them. She didn’t ask Nancy or anyone else for permission. Curiously, even though her presence at this council had become more important than ever, neither her boss nor the others said a thing in protest. Perhaps they glared at her retreating back, but that she could handle.

It seemed that Curtis hadn’t been called in today as well; a Secret Service agent took over the duty of propulsion, thus freeing Leo to walk beside the chair. That also allowed him to monitor The Man’s condition.

"I hate this, Leo. I really hate it!" Frustration rose above the sheer exhaustion. "I can’t accomplish a damned thing if I’m too tired to think straight!"

Kate fell into step a few yards behind, close enough to overhear but so far unobserved (except by the ever-vigilant bodyguards). She hardly made a habit of eavesdropping, but right now she felt like she absolutely had to know how her President really was.

"I can’t do as much as I want to. I can’t do what I _have_ to! Crises aren’t going to wait until I happen to be feeling good! The country is counting on me. The Joint Chiefs are counting on me. _You’re_ counting on me. _Should_ you be counting on me? How can I presume to do this job when I can’t guarantee that I’m up to it?"

He sounded as cranky as any child – except for the terrible importance of his words. Almost too worn out to even lift his head, he still managed to berate himself for what he saw as a failure to fulfill his duty. Clearly he was disappointed at his less-than-stunning improvement so far, worried about the long road still to go, and assailed by trepidation at the critical work that his illness must not curtail, yet did.

His best friend made a safe target for venting – one who understood. "Hey, you’re coming along. And you kicked ass in there. You’re not bound for retirement yet by a long shot."

Bartlet still didn’t rally, as though he’d fall right out of his chair if only it didn’t require that extra nudge of strength to lean forward first. "And what about next time? What if it’s a _really_ bad day, and they need me down here? Abbey will tell me I can’t, they’ll tell me I have to, and all the while I’m feeling like death warmed over... hell of a lot of use I’ll be to anyone. And I’m the only one who can make the final decision. Terrifying thought."

Still silently trailing as they slowly proceeded down the hall, Kate examined those telling questions herself. What if some real emergency detonated in the middle of the night, or on a day when he was completely flattened by fatigue? What if he simply couldn’t make it downstairs? Would C.J. get together with Leo? Would they bring in Russell? Would the Twenty-fifth Amendment apply? Or would they brief the President in his bedroom and then let him delegate at least a basic course of action? Would the Joint Chiefs make their own decisions as much as possible to avoid bothering him?

And, between their legal requirement to keep him informed and their concern for the cost to his strength, just how much would they actually tell him?

Oh, this was not good. The Man sounded like he was on the brink of giving up... and one of his best military advisors sounded to herself like she was giving up on him.

The executive parade reached the elevator; Kate couldn’t follow any further. In fact, she realized with a sick feeling that she couldn’t even withdraw unnoticed. So she stopped short in the middle of the hall, drew herself to full attention, and waited to be reprimanded for spying. On the President, no less.

Head sagging, eyes closed, he didn’t see her. Leo, however, did.

No way could he believe that she hadn’t heard everything. And he would _not_ like the idea of anyone overhearing his old friend spill out those private doubts and fears. His cold frown demanded an explanation.

She had no defense, no official matter to use as an excuse. She didn’t even try to invent a query that might justify her presence. She was utterly at fault, obeying her emotions rather than her responsibilities, daring to intrude upon them.

He wouldn’t likely ream her out now, with the President’s need to rest taking top priority and with the President actually present. But later...

To her surprise, the anger that he had directed at her in the past for openly contesting his counsel, the anger that she truly deserved this time, did not take form. Instead, he looked... sad. And perhaps just a touch grateful.

He knew that she was here solely out of worry – that she only wanted to know if their leader would be all right.

As the elevator door opened, he gave her a slight nod.

Kate accepted that nod as a pledge, and embraced the wave of relief that accompanied it. Somehow, all would be well.

Silent and still, she stood there and watched them go.


	20. Sitting President, The 20

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 20:** _THOMAS CAVANAUGH_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

Some people express wonder at a national leader who professes to believe in an invisible, improvable deity... and some express disquiet. A national leader can have tremendous impact upon almost every aspect of his country: military strength, political stability, economic prosperity, international influence. A national leader can bring pressure to bear on agriculture, industry, education, technology, natural resources and more, for good or ill. It’s an immense amount of power placed in the hands of one person. All the checks and balances in the government can’t dilute the knowledge of that one person being exclusively in command. Such a leader might all too easily develop a dangerous superiority complex, unwilling to concede to any other force on earth.

Such a leader can also, on occasion, find that degree of authority and responsibility overwhelming. It is understandable to fear making the wrong choice, to dread every decision that might cause untold harm and suffering. It is humbling to remember that even those in the highest strata of worldwide human social standing are still mortal, sometimes weak, sometimes uncertain, sometimes in error. It is critical for leaders to weigh every factor and ponder every alternative, but it is reassuring to know that no one is utterly alone, that others share the path, that there are reliable sources of guidance and strength and comfort.

Some people prefer not to believe that there is Another of even greater power, Another who is ultimately in control. Others could not endure life in this reality without trusting in some kind of supreme being that loves, that cares, that listens... Someone who walks alongside, offering guidance and strength and comfort.

St. Martin’s Roman Catholic Church in Washington, D.C., not all that far from the White House, had the dubious distinction of being frequently swept by the Secret Service. This disturbed many, and reassured some, and hopefully thwarted others. It could infringe upon the ease of some people’s worship, but it made certain others’ worship possible. When those dark-suited individuals descended en masse upon the entire neighborhood with their security equipment and their grim faces, clergy and parishioners and public alike all knew that today the President would be joining them.

The long-distance visitor sat alone and observed all of this. He’d been screened on the way in, a process that resembled airport procedures but was even more sensitive and thorough. He knew that the presiding priest had been alerted to these measures in advance, that snipers perched on adjacent rooftops, and that the Church building had been emptied and searched from crypt to belfry a full hour before the service. Now these expressionless bodyguards were stationed at every exit like so many statues, silent and imposing, eyes constantly on the move. They couldn’t afford to care that some people resented their intrusion or their gall at bringing weapons into God’s House. They had established the safety of this locale thus far, and the life of every person within depended upon it staying that way.

Congregants had been arriving for awhile now. The visitor in the second-last row guessed that their numbers would bloom today; locals watched this address every Sunday morning, wondering if their favorite celebrity would have time to attend. Many came each week because they always came, regardless of who else was or was not present. Many others came only in the hope of beholding _one_ presence... but none of the regulars complained. At least these newcomers _came_ , when they normally would not. No doubt the priest felt annoyance at such shallow behavior, yet also appreciated having a captive audience – especially when some emergency surfaced at the last instant and their national leader couldn’t make it after all. Most sightseers had the decency not to get up and leave even in their disappointment, presenting him with a fine opportunity to preach to them when they were not distracted by one specific member of the congregation.

The ordained visitor glanced about, soaking up the relatively simple stone architecture, the glow of sunlight streaming through colorful stained glass, the perfume of polished old oak, the low vibration of the organ and the lilt of chanting voices as the choir warmed up. He also noted the quiet buzz of suppressed excitement in the pews. He, too, had come to see one specific individual. Like everyone else, he hoped that nothing blew up somewhere else – metaphorically or literally. He didn’t want to see a threat to others’ welfare _or_ to a high-ranking civil servant’s desire and right to attend mass.

The fully-vested priest stood in the vestibule just inside the main entrance at the back of the nave, welcoming each arrival with a few pleasant words and a handshake. The elderly visitor judged that he did this every week regardless; the short conversations were natural and unforced. Whether or not he had adopted this practice due to the attendance of a public figure on special days, or the frequency of total strangers dropping by on special days as well, it offered a fine personal touch.

The pews were filling up fast. There was a regrettable tendency in many different denominations for people to choose the rear seats first, as though they’d rather scrutinize others than be scrutinized by them. Today everyone huddled forward instead, no doubt hoping for a good view. The bespectacled visitor felt no such need, and preferred the comparative solitude that allowed him to monitor everything unnoticed.

The first hint of distant sirens wafted through the outside air just as another worshipper happened to open the front door and enter. Surely no one here believed for one moment that it was a passing fire truck. Heads turned; smiles broke out all round. The black-attired visitor witnessed this in both enjoyment and relief. Apparently no disaster had occurred after all, which in itself was good news.

The door swung shut against both the winter breeze and those distinctive police heralds. Then the next person walked in, and everyone heard the sirens again, a bit louder. On the third occasion, though, the open door let in only silence. The gray-haired visitor frowned. Had those sirens belonged to standard emergency vehicles after all, en route elsewhere to some urban crisis?

Then he spotted a slight stir among the human shadows that provided secular protection in this sacred place. At the same moment the front door opened again – and a few sets of proximate ears detected the low rumble as several vehicles pulling up outside at the same time. Since no funeral had been scheduled for this morning, it could only be the presidential motorcade. They must’ve turned off their sirens for the last couple of blocks, so as to not disturb the neighbors and the gathered parishioners with such a racket.

The solitary visitor had deliberately positioned himself so that he had a good view of the entrance without being too visible himself. He saw in amusement that just about everyone else was craning around in their pews as well...

They all waited together as two full minutes of cool, blowing air ticked by. Then at last the priest stepped forward. To those in the back rows his simple welcome served as a proclamation and, in essence, a role call. "Good morning, Mr. President. Mrs. Bartlet. Zoey."

"Father Kirby." People who did not regularly watch television might not recognize that voice, even in D.C. – unless they happened to be thinking about its owner at the time. Even so, here he kept his usual enthusiasm toned down to a bare minimum. Here he had not come to address the whole place. Here he did not want to stand out at all.

The leader of the free world was still using a wheelchair. That explained the pronounced delay after the cars pulled up. His wife stood on one side and his youngest daughter on the other, a vaguely protective stance. The unnoticed visitor knew personally just how protective all members of this Family were towards each other.

The three special guests started down the wide center aisle, a man who was probably a bodyguard pushing the chair. The stoop-shouldered visitor grinned at the sight of heads on all sides rotating swiftly forward again, and how almost everyone pretended to ignore their national leader entirely. If they focused on him rather than on the service, they’d miss the whole point of attending in the first place. That in itself would hardly deter the first-time attendees, but they didn’t want to get caught staring in such a milieu. Besides, surely their national leader would feel those stares, and no one wanted him to turn and notice _them_.

In this relative silence the trio reached the front row and took their seats, a delicate process that required two of them to help the third balance cautiously between narrow pews and shuffle awkwardly sideways.

Security procedures must be observed even in the most sacred surroundings. The President needed to sit up front, because even here he had to be seen. He always sat on the end of the pew, in case a swift exit was required. They’d naturally want his chair very close by, but it mustn’t block the center aisle either, so today he wound up on the far right side, with a less than stellar view. Dark-suited human statues loomed along both side walls and across the back, and there really did seem to be an awful lot of them. But then, not only did they have to guard against violence in the most unlikely places, they also had three different people to protect... and they might well have to physically pick up one of those three in order to get him to safety.

Curiously enough, once the actual service began, it wasn’t hard to forget all about America’s premier family and to lose oneself in the ritual and the meaning. The Bartlets sat as quietly as their fellow congregants. The priest didn’t drop a single word that referred to their presence. The Secret Service agents hardly twitched. When the congregation rose to sing a hymn, most were too busy finding the page and following the music to see whether one other of their number actually stood or not. The ecclesiastical visitor noted that, while the President stayed seated almost all the while, no doubt conserving his strength, he made a point of being assisted to his feet for the reading of the Holy Gospel – a deeply ingrained gesture of respect.

Any preacher would feel self-conscious with such an eclectic audience: regulars who paid close attention, first-time spectators who might understand less than half of what he said, famous faces who had come to avoid their fame, a man with his own theological training and the habit of dissecting every word for its deepest meaning... Any hint of presidential disagreement or boredom in the sermon’s content had to be well-hidden, for the sake of both common courtesy and public backlash, but every sermonizer must torture himself wondering if his homily appealed to such an intelligent and illustrious listener.

The clerical visitor knew that many Americans were quite neutral on whether or not their Chief Executive attended a religious service of any description... and many others actively disliked it. It was a good thing in _this_ national leader, but it might not be in some. If a politically powerful figure decides that he has "the will of God" on his side, and therefore the divine right to run a society based exclusively upon the tenets of _his_ religious profession, that would almost certainly cause serious problems. It had in many places in the not-so-distant past.

For a third viewpoint, still others were totally fascinated by the chance to see their President in such a non-ceremonial, normal, _human_ setting. They would brave the most unfamiliar environment for the pleasure of getting so close. His standard inaccessibility all too often turned him into an icon, something so utterly different from the citizens on the street that they had hardly any point of reference to form a comparison. Until, that is, they saw him like this... just one of the crowd, not removed from it like usual, not exalted above them but sitting right among them. And suddenly the untouchable icon became a human again.

The President could not be unaware of the approval he garnered when he came here. And the opposition he courted. And the purulent interest of POTUS-spotters straining for a good view at this very moment. Granted, he did not have to perform for them this morning – but he was on display no matter where he went. He had probably long since resigned himself to the reality and taught himself to block it out. Otherwise worship would be virtually impossible.

Any priest in any Church would willingly bring the Holy Communion down from the sanctuary to any individual not well enough to come forward to receive it. In all likelihood many people expected to see that happen here. But no; when their turn came the First Lady helped her husband lever himself upright, the First Daughter brought her father the short, metal crutches that had been discreetly hooked to the back of his chair, and Jed Bartlet walked forward under his own power.

It was a sight and a half. He moved jerkily, but didn’t seem in imminent danger of falling, which bespoke of progress and healing. It was a tricky maneuver: the narrow pew forced him to move sideways to exit, and the entire building possessed a lot of angles and corners to be bumped into and tripped over. Also, he needed to free one hand to receive the Host, a risk to his balance even with supporting family members on both sides. Then he had to negotiate a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree about-face and return just as carefully to his seat, past other approaching communicants. Of course no one crowded him. He held his head up – not in pride at his station, but in satisfaction at his accomplishment.

Even the organ voluntary seemed to hush in tribute.

This was the first public appearance of those crutches, and the first public endeavor to walk. Plainly he felt comfortable enough here among his own parishioners not to be bothered by them watching him... and perhaps he was also sending a message: against pity and against special treatment. Perhaps he didn’t want people to think that he was too vain to display his handicap in public – even here, where vanity and dignity meant nothing. Whichever it might be, he chose to approach the Altar just like he always had. Just like everyone else.

The discerning visitor contemplated the many levels of meaning behind every move this man made. He was a national leader with deep faith, leading a nation of all faiths. He had to face the accusations of deliberately manipulating votes with his "appearance" of devotion. He had to deal fairly with people who revered very different things than he did, and with people who revered nothing. Ironically, a multi-cultural, pluralistic, democratic society can by its very leniencies and freedoms increase the risk to its own people... especially those in the public eye.

The mass finally ended, just like hundreds of thousands of similar services taking place around the world over the course of this day. The fading of the final hymn seemed to brush aside the invisible curtain that had been graciously drawn between the President and his fellow worshippers. As he was helped into his chair and started back up the center aisle, people flowed around him from all directions. The presence of the Secret Service probably helped curb their enthusiasm, but this really was nothing like the swarm of reporters one would expect on Capitol Hill; it bore far more resemblance to a relaxed get-together of old friends. All wanted to bid him good day, and honestly inquire into how he was feeling, and just generally treat him like one of their own.

The silent visitor stayed back and observed this in hidden delight. The chief resident of the White House, if a churchgoer, usually developed a special and personal relationship with "his" parish. They became like a separate branch of his family, providing him with a sense of community that he couldn’t get anywhere else. It was a contact _all_ people needed. Many of his own constituents continued to be amazed that their Chief Executive and Head of State and Commander of the Armed Forces was also human, a normal individual, able to feel pain and loss and happiness and adoration. In a political fashion, he wasn’t allowed to _be_ human. He was placed on a pedestal and practically worshipped as a god himself. He had to rise above the desires and weaknesses of the race, he had to fulfill enormously high expectations beyond that of just about any other person in the world, and he had to endure an invasion of privacy that no one should be subjected to out of basic decency. And yet folks still wondered that so many holders of that high office turned to the Church.

No leader is perfect. How leaders handle their imperfections is what makes the difference.

The perceptive visitor wished that the rest of the country could see this. The Bartlets held court in three separate groups, sharing their time and their presence as widely as possible. They chatted amiably with those grouped around them, completely at ease, not giving a thought to the very public life they all led – where every word was listened to and reported on the airwaves. Here they could let down their guards and be themselves. The members of this parish provided their own brand of protection, reveling in their personal connection with some quite extraordinary people, determined not to do anything that might upset _their_ First Family and send them looking for a different community. They kept a close eye on the hovering strangers, permitting some degree of access while ensuring that no one monopolized the President’s time.

If only more people extended such consideration to _all_ celebrities...

The patient visitor waited towards the rear of this assembly, aware of his own special status but not about to exploit it. Sooner or later he’d get the high sign – there. Abbey was waving him over.

He eased himself through the multitude. They gave ground without too much reluctance. His advanced age, his gentle demeanor and his distinctive white cloth collar probably went a long way toward soothing any potential annoyance at _this_ stranger.

He arrived at the front line with good timing. Bartlet had just finished a joke, and was turning in his general direction –

He stopped in a comical expression of astonishment. "Tom!"

"Jed."

Few indeed beyond the immediate Family had the privilege of using such an address. The priest of the President’s old parish in New Hampshire, who knew him from his youth, was entitled. Besides, in this building the office and the title had no meaning.

The cluster around them became very quiet, eager to witness this intriguing encounter.

Jed’s astonishment quickly segued into wonder. "What are you doing here? And on a Sunday! Did your own congregation kick you out?" He reached up from that chair and offered a hearty double-handshake. In fact, he looked ready to leap right out of his seat and envelop his old teacher and friend with a bear hug.

The Reverend Thomas Cavanaugh, B.Sc., M.Div. (ret.), bent as close as his arthritic frame allowed, hiding a stab of regret that, between the two of them, such a hug was simply not possible today. "Rather, I decided it was past time for me to visit the outside world again." He didn’t go into details, but he directed an appreciative glance aside. Abbey had wandered over from her own conversation circle to join them.

Her husband caught that mute communication, and the proverbial light bulb switched on. "My deductive powers tell me _Abbey_ is behind this. She knows I’d rather see you than the Pope himself." That was no facetious comment, since he had in fact met the pontiff before. He threw his wife a look of delight that she’d made this much more personal meeting possible.

"If that’s what it takes to get an invitation to visit..." the aged yet still hale, still sharp-minded priest replied softly.

Jed had always been quick on the uptake; he got that subtle message at once. His smile – indeed, his entire posture – settled into a peculiar stillness, as though he’d been hit by quite an intense emotion and didn’t want to show it.

His boyhood pastor didn’t doubt that this was in fact the case. Today was the President’s first holy service since his trip to China... since his relapse. According to Abbey, between his slowly-growing work schedule and his still-compromised stamina, he’d had no contact at all with the Church or any of its ministers over those two weeks. He was spending most of his strength on his admittedly demanding job. He was pushing himself relentlessly towards getting better. According to Abbey, he was improving – yet not without occasional bouts of frustration and doubt and bitterness.

The former incumbent of the Immaculate Heart of Mary studied the present incumbent of the Oval Office. He remembered coaching a bright young boy towards adulthood and theological study. He remembered being invited to the White House by a confused and disheartened politician. He remembered bluntly reproaching a world leader for his lack of action against capital punishment.

He had seen an accomplished and confident man crippled by indecision. Now he saw a strong and energetic man crippled by disease.

Temporarily.

Jed was President, but he was also mortal. He needed direction, just like anyone else – in his job _and_ in his life. He had access to some of the brightest political minds in the country. He was being treated by many of the best medical experts in the country. He was surrounded by one of the most caring families in the country. He also deserved the option for pastoral care that anyone going through a physical andemotional upheaval is entitled to receive.

Either from lack of time, with his attention fastened on working around his new handicap, or from an honest belief that he could handle things himself, he hadn’t asked for that help from anyone. Or it could be from something even more subconscious? His job required that he be strong. His nature made similar demands. This wasn’t ego – it edged closer to desperation. He _had_ to get well. If he tried hard enough, he could _make_ himself well. And it can be so easy to fool oneself that everything is in hand.

Yet another option was more elemental still. Every human makes mistakes. Every _President_ makes mistakes, and with generally far greater repercussions. Jed probably wondered a little if he’d brought this relapse upon himself by his own choices over these years. If so, he might sometimes see himself as no longer having the right to ask for help – that he deserved this fate, and was unworthy to accept any alleviation of the justified price. Even the strongest faith inevitably questions itself now and then.

None of his friends or family would have condoned such thoughts for a minute. Yet how many could guess at his innermost doubts? With whom would he have discussed these nagging reservations, if they existed? Almost certainly no one.

But Abbey _knew_ him. So she had taken steps on her own to nip any such fears in the bud. She wanted to make absolutely sure that her love didn’t neglect himself in _any_ regard.

Her next comment eliminated any further question. "Join us in our car, Father. We’ll chat over lunch."

Cavanaugh nodded his thanks – and not at the extremely rare opportunity to ride in the executive limousine. As he and the First Lady had planned in advance, this way he would not curtail the limited time the Bartlets cherished at St. Martin’s, he would be able to speak with Abbey _and_ Zoey at leisure... and he would have a decent sit-down with the man who was the most in need of a priest’s counsel.

Jed didn’t have to have any of this explained; he realized right here and now that, just maybe, he had failed to take something important into account. Maybe he’d been paying too much attention to the secular demands on his life these days. He’d soon have time to address that error, though – in private, in depth, and without hurrying.

This time his glance at his wife brimmed with deep gratitude.

Judging from her own tender smile, Abbey read that gratitude loud and clear. This is what it means to know your spouse’s soul: to offer a precious gift that had never been asked for, yet was definitely needed and recognized.

Cavanaugh chose this moment to withdraw. He’d already been cleared with the Secret Service; they would fetch him at departure time. He inclined his head to his old friend, stepped back and left them to their socializing.

From what Abbey had said, and from what the news reported, Jed wasn’t in spiritual dire straights... but he wasn’t recharging as much as he should, and they shouldn’t wait until the problem became serious. Sometimes pastoral care could be looked upon as preventative medicine.

Jed had a right to feel that frustration and bitterness. Anyone going through such trauma is certain to have questions and uncertainties. When you factored in the enormous responsibilities of the Presidency, he was actually doing quite well. However, even the most stable and confident soul can crack if the pressure is unrelenting enough, and the White House had to be the single heaviest burden around.

Cavanaugh didn’t get the impression that Jed’s bitterness had been turned against God; surely he wouldn’t have come to mass if that were true. On the other hand, he had to be plagued with at least a few insecurities. This man had never been one to dodge a challenge, especially the philosophical kind. No, he faced it head-on and didn’t quit until he understood the answer. This would be no different.

In many such circumstances, certain questions could be predicted. Why had God allowed this severe affliction of a faithful servant, and in particular a servant upon whom so much and so many relied? Had God done this deliberately, in punishment for past sins? Or was He unable to prevent it?

By definition, the Almighty cannot _be_ defined. His motives and powers are beyond human comprehension. But that tended to make it harder for those who believed in His existence to grasp what He wanted.

Cavanaugh didn’t hold to the theory of divine retribution, and he hoped that no other priest did either. One of his own bedrock beliefs was that God embodied mercy and love; there was _nothing_ He couldn’t forgive. Another was that God was not the only supernatural force in this world; the powers of evil still existed and still caused havoc in mortal lives. That by-product of fallen humanity often increased the need to trust in a benevolent and ultimately triumphant deity. The conviction that _anything_ could be faced with God’s help had enabled many people to perform incredible feats of endurance.

Perhaps this wheelchair, this partial paralysis, this neurological disease wasn’t a punishment, or a bad roll by the dice of pure chance. Perhaps it was an opening – for Jed to grow even stronger where strength really counted... and for the people of the United States to grow with him. There had been unprecedented exposure and debate of late about discrimination against the disabled and the ill. Whatever happened in the end to America’s President, America herself was progressing, working towards guaranteeing every citizen’s right to live a productive life regardless of handicap.

Cavanaugh admitted to himself that he felt just a bit apprehensive about the conversation to come. Offering counsel to the President of the United States on _any_ matter was a somewhat heady prospect, and he would have to be even more careful than he always was that he gave _sound_ counsel. He would have to address the concerns of the individual, yet he could not afford to forget the complications of the office. If he were indirectly and inadvertently responsible for future problems to the office that arose because of his advice...

Then again, he’d done it once before. He’d ignored the very special room in which they sat and treated his host like any other supplicant seeking wisdom. That was his critical role: to cut through politics and public opinion to the innermost heart.

He didn’t forget that the hometown boy from Hanover who rose to the White House had at one point trained for the priesthood himself. Come what may, the conversation itself should be thoughtful, rational and interesting. Even their earliest discussions in decades past had qualified in that regard.

No, he needn’t worry too much in the end. He would be dealing with a man he knew well: a man who was highly intelligent, persistently optimistic and deeply faithful. He knew that his opinion would be carefully listened to and even more carefully evaluated. He welcomed that contemplative approach. No representative of any organization ought to be followed blindly. That’s one of the basic reasons for the separation of Church and State... and one of the reasons why the President has so many different advisors on every topic. Logic must be applied to governing _and_ to religion.

Regardless of what happened in the long run, the visiting priest was confident of one thing. Jed Bartlet remained very much alive, very capable of thinking and working and caring. Surely he would continue to have the chance to apply all of these qualities for the benefit of others. Surely he still had a vital role to play in this life.


	21. Sitting President, The 21

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 21:** _SAM SEABORN_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

It was the most extraordinary experience. When he toured this building as a boy, he felt awed by its history. When he first came to work inside this building, he felt overwhelmed by its tangible power. While he had his own office in this building, he felt stressed by its workload and exhilarated by its influence. When he left this building after four years of hard labor and high accomplishment, he felt depressed for leaving it and grateful for having served within it.

When he walked back inside this building, the first time he had returned after leaving, he was assailed by so many emotions that he couldn’t name them all.

The security guards didn’t know him. They used to, but some new faces had to have arrived since his departure. He missed the friendly greeting they always used to have for him.

The passing employees didn’t know him. They, too, dealt with a periodic turnover of staff at all levels. He missed the cockiness of being recognized by almost everyone, the privilege of having his right to walk these halls unquestioned.

Even the computer didn’t know him. Doubtless it retained documentation of his employment somewhere in the depths of its gargantuan memory, but it didn’t automatically wave him through like it used to. Now he had to arrange for a proper appointment well in advance, and have his name added to the guest list, and be signed in. His days of _pass partout_ were over.

This building had stood for over two hundred years. It had seen Presidents, First Families, senior staff, support staff, security staff, domestic staff and maintenance staff come and go in a steady stream. It would be standing, hopefully, two hundred years from now. He had made a very small contribution to its existence. It didn’t need him. It no longer knew him, ether.

And then he walked into the West Wing.

"Sam!"

"I don’t believe it!"

"Hey, Sam! How are you?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Great to see you, Sam!"

"How’ve you been, Sam?"

"Taking good care of California?"

"You need to visit more often, Sam!"

"It’s been way too long!"

"How are you doing these days, Sam?"

"We’ve missed you, Sam!"

"Amazing this place hasn’t fallen down without you!"

"What brings you back here, Sam?"

"Are you running again, Sam?"

Suddenly the anonymity of being just one more faceless visitor, unknown and unnoticed, had its own appeal. But the Congressman from Orange County gladly allowed himself to be mobbed by old friends and peppered by questions and generally welcomed back into the fold. It felt like coming home.

Fortunately, he’d figured – without undue immodesty, he thought – that there might be a reaction like this, and arrived early to allow extra time for it. It was past suppertime on a Monday evening, but he well remembered how he and his colleagues never considered closing up shop just because the clock struck five; he knew there would be a lot of people working late. Also, some folks had to have known of his invitation today; it wasn’t a big deal, yet hardly a secret. Both factors promised a fairly warm reception... one he had been looking forward to with equal parts delight and trepidation.

In fact, with all the gathering faces and congratulations and handshakes and snatches of conversation, he barely arrived in the Roosevelt Room before his meeting was due to start.

"Seaborn!" one of his fellow invitees greeted cheerfully. "Get in here. We were wondering if you’d even show."

"Sorry. I was waylaid in the halls." Sam headed towards one of the few vacant chairs left against the rear wall – all seats but one around the long polished conference table were already taken. He’d been in office the same length of time as everyone else here, but certainly didn’t consider himself superior in any way. Previous employment in this House didn’t count for equal time in the _other_ House.

Before he actually sat down, he took a moment to survey the fifteen or so individuals crowded in here with him. He didn’t know any well, but as professional colleagues he knew bits of information about each – mostly because he had a few things in common with them. All were members of Congress, and Democrats, and newly elected. Almost a third were female; roughly the same ratio represented visible minorities. From the telltale, pervasive twitchiness on all sides, very few had ever visited the White House before.

He tried not to feel smug at that – the warm familiarity he felt with this amazing place. Whatever limited impact he’d had, he’d been privileged to work here.

Then he gazed about this chamber, once so familiar to him. It hadn’t changed appreciably, but he found himself wondering what debates and deals had taken place here since he left... what decisions had been made without his help.

Really, one human life is so transitory. The world keeps on turning, oblivious to petty political details. Only the big ones made it into the history books.

But then, he remembered, a lot of those tiny points had nevertheless caused huge ripple effects – just not necessarily effects that the people saw. And he didn’t need to leave a lasting mark in American history, as a Congressman or otherwise. He’d taken part in the progressive and productive administration of a great man. He had contributed, and was contributing still, to his country. Who could ask for more than that?

"Nostalgic?" another compatriot teased, clearly deciphering his distant expression.

The onetime Deputy Communications Director ran a hand through his short black hair and grinned self-consciously. "Not as much as you might think. I made some of my best mistakes in this room."

He had to admit that he’d just as soon forget those less-than-happy incidents... but they were inseparably entwined with many, many pleasant recollections of satisfying work with dear friends, of triumphs for justice and public good. He wouldn’t jettison the bad memories if it meant losing any of the good ones, too.

He was feeling way more nostalgic than he’d admitted.

Someone else laughed. "I _knew_ we should’ve started without you."

"But not without _me_ , I hope," a new voice piped up from the doorway.

Every head wrenched around in concert. For one instant Sam felt a stab of total disbelief that the President of the United States could walk into any room unnoticed.

For that same instant, only two people were standing: the President and his former speechwriter.

Because of their dual height advantage, their eyes met at once.

Sam’s already wide eyes grew even wider. The President was _standing._

The lone response to his gape was a flare of one brow, in both a greeting and an acknowledgement. Jed Bartlet knew full well that the up-and-coming California politician hadn’t reacted solely to seeing his national leader and a man he’d always tremendously respected, who also used to be his boss, for the first time in years.

Then the instant passed, and all the others bolted to their feet. Sam couldn’t tear his focus away, so he didn’t glance around, but he’d have bet that they were gawking just as much – and not merely because most of them hadn’t met their Chief Executive in person before this moment.

The President was _walking!_

The metal forearm crutches screamed infirmity, but he managed to act quite casual about it, leaning almost jauntily a few degrees off-center – as though these were simple walking canes instead, the kind that Victorian gentlemen had used for fashion rather than need. The hunch to his shoulders, caused by carrying a good portion of his weight on his arms, he somehow twisted into the illusion of a static shrug. In every other aspect, as he posed for their inspection, he looked stunningly natural: attire flawless, head tilted, smile confident, vision bright.

"I don’t often say this anymore, but I wish you guys had refused my invitation."

They all knew something about his impish sense of humor, yet even Sam couldn’t tell where he was going with this.

Bartlet moved forward now, stiffly, the crutches negating any attempt at grace, but he used his words as a form of camouflage – or at least a distraction. "Some of you are from the most exotic regions in the country. I was really looking forward to going to _you_ instead, and enjoying a holiday in the process."

Smiles broke out, both amused and sad. Even if it hadn’t been the most logical move to meet in D.C., and the most respectful gesture for them to come to _him_ , surely his audience guessed that he was simply unable to tackle long trips at the present. No one could forecast when his energy would be up to it or not – including The Man himself.

The nearer Congresspeople drew aside as he approached the one unclaimed chair at the table. He moved at a slow and cautious rate, conscious of each step. The grips were perfectly fitted to let him stand as straight as he used to... only the tautness across his shoulders and the jerkiness to his motions had changed.

Sam fought the impulse to cringe, assailed by memories of the two of them marching swiftly through these corridors at a very energetic pace, as if nothing could ever slow them down...

No one commented aloud, but Bartlet had to be making considerable progress. Walking to work instead of rolling meant that he’d reached the stage where constant use of the wheelchair actually hampered any further improvement. Bringing the crutches into public view meant that he wasn’t letting vanity or excessive pride get between him and a full recovery.

Behind him came two people whom Sam did not know but of whom he had heard: two people who could not have created a bigger contrast. One was the new body man, with a politely reserved attitude and a build that would guarantee a football scholarship at any university. The other was the Media Relations consultant, smiling merrily and barely topping five feet in high heels. He helped their President get himself seated; she placed a folder in front of their President’s place. Then he took the crutches and withdrew from the room, and she stepped back to stand near the door with clipboard in hand, both silently waiting for when they would next be needed.

Bartlet pulled out his reading glasses and a pen. "Take your places, people. I don’t want to waste your time."

And just like that, any implication other than business as usual vanished. So what if he couldn’t dance a tango right now? He was _himself_. Members of Congress relaxed in relief, grinned at the suggestion that they could possibly be busier than their national leader, and seated themselves into a ring of almost believable equality.

"Also, thanks for coming in so late. This whole place has been a scheduling nightmare over the last few months."

No one needed to comment on that, either. Between the Camp David summit on an amazing Middle East peace plan and the China trip with its future potential, never mind anything else, days _or_ nights during the past year where everyone was free to attend had been frankly impossible. Then they all got socked with the little matter of presidential health, and the serious challenge of predicting a good day in the most elementalsense.

"Let me explain what we’re doing here." The Man rotated his head to look at each in turn. "None of you has been to this kind of meeting before; if you had, you wouldn’t be here now. You’re all in your first term of office at the federal level. Some of you have never held public office at _any_ level before."

He did not look specifically at Sam – who, on his part, did not try to catch the executive eye. Here he was not one of the senior staff, inside the circle, with advance information. Here he was just one of four hundred and thirty-five legislators and several thousandclub members. It rankled a bit, but he couldn’t deny reality. He had chosen his path. Life moves on.

"I didn’t bring you all the way to Washington to lecture you," the President went on firmly. "Yes, I have some experience in the House myself. If you want advice, I’ll try to provide it. But that was more than fifteen years ago, and things can change pretty fast over there. I brought you together because I want to hear from _you_ – and I want you to hear from each other. I want you to share your thoughts on the political machine: what you like, what you dislike, what you think should be changed and what you’d like to add. We’re not brainstorming; we’re just trading impressions. Some of you might’ve come up with a few tricks that others can use – or made a few mistakes that you’d like to spare your friends from making as well. It’s in the best interests of the Party and the government, never mind me, that you all know as much about your jobs as possible." He leaned back comfortably. "This is your meeting."

Sam had helped arrange mini-conferences like this before. Ever since the start of his first administration, at some point soon after the most recent elections, on three separate days, Bartlet met with those Democratic representatives who were totally green in their new career: Congresspeople, Senators and Governors. Together they were building a new tradition of political education in American federal government.

The President always looked forward to these get-togethers. He enjoyed seeing new recruits grow into their chosen field, he reaped the mutual benefit of helping develop them into a more cohesive and effective unit, and he invariably learned something about the general atmosphere and the innermost finagling of the current stateside and federal legislative bodies that he hadn’t known before.

This was the first time Sam had been on the other side of the looking glass. He remembered his boss proposing this curious idea soon after they won the White House. At the time, an equal motive was to learn more about his own executive role as well – especially with regard to the Senate, where he didn’t have personal experience. Sam also remembered the reaction when Bartlet offered to hold similar meetings with Republican newcomers. It didn’t fly; it didn’t even get off the ground. People on both sides of the fence assumed that he wanted to use this innocuous cover to glean tactical details from "the enemy," to pass that information along to his own troops, and to generally sow discord, and no amount of protestation could change anyone’s view. The funny thing was that the leader of the GOP started holding similar "briefings" in _his_ Party not long afterward, grasping the common sense of following wisdom’s example no matter what its source, and pretending that imitation _wasn’t_ the sincerest form of flattery.

Sam resolved to keep quiet for most of tonight’s discussion. He had a grasp of federal politics well beyond many first-timers, after working behind the scenes in the very nerve center. Everyone here knew about his old job, and he did not want to appear to monopolize things or look like he was trying to cash in on presidential friendship. So he sat back and, save for a very few interjections, said nothing while his fellow Congressional freshmen expressed their success with some established methodologies and their confusion over others, their frustration at certain in-House restrictions and their annoyance at partisan animosity, their increased understanding of political barter and their increased skill in political debate. In the process, he learned some things himself. Working in one House doesn’t _prepare_ one for the other House, either.

And he watched The Man.

Sam had seen many instant replays of the chair topple on the South Lawn last Saturday. So had most of America. In retrospect, knowing that no harm had been done, it did have its comical side, but those who really knew Bartlet had been hit by far more complicated feelings. First off, he continued to be at risk of criminal assault no matter what personal trauma he was already going through, which transcended the concept of injustice. Second, they all wanted him to regain his mobility, his independence, his health – yet they all shared the fear that he would push too hard and hurt himself in the process. In that regard, the crutches were an even greater concern: it would be so easy for him to fall the wrong way (as if there were that much of a _right_ way) and injure his legs anew... or his spine... or strike his head... Any of the above could set him back weeks or more.

It is a fundamental aspect of a kind heart that witnessing the pain of someone deeply cared for exceeds all other forms of anguish. A lot of this pervasive concern had nothing at all to do with the office.

The meeting eventually wound down, as all the pet peeves were aired and all the insider tips were exchanged. Bartlet too had not said a whole lot unless directly addressed; clearly he was gauging the spirit of the gathering. At last he drew things to a gentle, reluctant close.

"We’ve had an interesting and a productive time tonight. I’m sorry that I won’t meet with any of you like this again." For a moment he looked melancholy, no doubt due to his forthcoming departure from the last job he would ever hold. But he didn’t let that less-than-positive note linger. "It’s now up to you to carry forth the traditions of our Party and our country, to serve your constituents, to prove worthy of the power with which you have been entrusted, to use it wisely, and to build a future for all of us."

Sam noted to himself that their leader hadn’t lost one iota of his eloquence. In addition, the rapid approach of his final day in office fueled his desire to get as much accomplished as possible before then. No executive _weakness_ would be allowed to stand in the way.

No one rose until the President did. For that to happen, he had to summon his body man, who brought the crutches. Standing up required more effort than sitting down; the procedure unfolded step by step in painfully slow motion, mocking the automatic ease most people never thought about. He had to plan every move and test every angle, and the boardroom chair almost rolled out from under him, but he caught himself in time and achieved a measure of upright balance.

"Thanks for coming, everyone. Annabeth will get the minutes out to you."

The Media Relations consultant completed her notes with a perky nod.

Normally, after such an event, Bartlet would leave first, heading back to his office or whatever appointment awaited him next, and then the others would be escorted out. Curiously, The Man did not make such a prompt exit tonight, but rather stood in the doorway to bid each of his guests goodbye. And what guest would turn down such an opportunity? The departure of junior Congresspeople turned into a receiving line, with a startling resemblance to new graduates extending their thanks to their mentoring professor.

Sam thought of two reasons. One: their President wanted to savor this, because he would not have another such opportunity to gather together the bright young minds of the future in his White House. Two: his former boss wanted to speak to him in particular, and for him to leave ahead of the others from his spot along the rear wall would have meant pushing almost literally through the press. This was far more democratic.

So the Congressman for Orange County with the boyish face, legal training and White House work credentials silently hung back and allowed his esteemed colleagues to precede him. It wouldn’t take long...

It took longer than expected, as handshakes extended into conversations and the visitors embraced this grand chance to speak one-on-one with their leader, but finally the third-last politician exited.

"Mr. California!"

Bartlet had braced himself between the jamb and his left crutch; he’d handed the other crutch to his body man, thereby freeing his right arm from weight-bearing and his right hand for handshaking. Either by intention or through sheer nonchalance, he affected the image of leaning easily against the doorframe. Smiling more broadly now than for anyone who had already passed before him, he extended his hand to his former Deputy Director of Communications.

Sam grinned at this typical style as well as at the hearty greeting. "Yes, I’m working out, in more ways than one." He tried not to feel too proud of his general vitality or his career’s momentum – not when his President faced crippling weakness and the twilight of _his_ career.

"If you want some pointers on the nautilus equipment, talk to Curtis here." Bartlet jerked a nod towards the burly personal assistant. "I can vouch for the effectiveness of his regime."

Sam sensed a hidden meaning to that statement and positively itched for clarification, but resisted the temptation to ask. If the President wanted to rehash the details, he would.

"Come on." The Man reached for his other crutch. "Abbey will want to see you. We can talk on the way."

"Okay!" Sam agreed eagerly. He didn’t hesitate to barge in on his old colleagues, but the First Lady was the one other person around here whom he didn’t feel entitled to blithely interrupt for a chat. An executive escort solved that puzzle and extended the current interaction at the same time.

Then he wondered whether walking all the way from the West Wing to the _East_ Wing was a good idea for a certain Commander-in-Chief.

His Commander-in-Chief gave him no time to reconsider. He set both crutches securely, levered himself forward, and started down the hall.

Each step was slow, and no one would label them agile, yet for the most part they remained regular and not too wobbly. The metal shafts clicked with every stride, their rubber ferrules counting out the time.

Sam glanced at the room now behind him, and at the corridor ahead. The President had to think about so many new details to every movement. Narrow gaps, for instance, such as between tables at a dinner or desks in a bullpen, would be a hazard for any chair. They’d be none too safe for crutches, either – not to mention chair legs, carpet edges, thresholds and other obstacles just lying in wait to catch the tips and cause a spectacular upset.

Sam beat back his own profound discomfort at witnessing this stage. After all, the crutches were no worse than the chair. The President didn’t need a chair fulltime anymore, a very good thing in itself. He was regaining leg strength and control. Things might not be going smoothly, but he could walk again. Eventually he would be able to jettison the aids altogether. He had to be proud of his progress thus far. And everyone else should be proud of him as well.

Proud or not, at least they weren’t crowding him. The halls were suspiciously empty. Pacing solemnly alongside at perhaps half his usual speed, Sam suspected that most employees deliberately made themselves scarce when their leader walked by, so that he didn’t think they were staring at him and so they weren’t _tempted_ to stare. Whatever it took to help his route and ease his burden, they would do.

"So." Having found his rhythm, Bartlet reopened the dialogue. He needed to watch every step, though, making sure he planted his feet and his crutches properly. That left him no freedom to spare for eye contact. "Great to see you. Who’ve you bumped into so far?"

Sam knew that query meant primarily the senior staff, among whom he’d once been numbered. "So far, Toby and Charlie." Pause for effect. "Toby gave me a hug."

The Man’s irregular stride really wavered a moment, and his brows descended in skepticism. "Okay, you’re _trying_ to knock me off-kilter here."

"Word of honor, sir." Sam delighted in being one of the very few who could reach the well-guarded, surprisingly-soft core of Toby Ziegler. Then he sobered. "I caught myself looking around for Josh at one point. It feels weird not having him here."

"That I will vouch for as well. Josh brought his own brand of weirdness; it counteracted the other kind."

Sam snickered, but only for a moment. He’d stayed at least somewhat in touch over these four years. He knew what Josh was doing now. He knew that Donna had also left the White House. He knew about Will’s brief span here and where _he_ was now. He knew about Leo’s heart attack and C.J.’s promotion, and about Charlie’s metamorphosis as well.

So much had changed... he was tumbling down the rabbit hole.

Sam had often felt a bit like the youngest brother in the family of the White House senior staff – not just because of his slightly lesser years and his slightly lesser rank, but because he picked up on the innate protectiveness of the others towards him. His bouncy, optimistic idealism might have been an additional factor. However, branching out into his own career in politics, away from D.C., made him feel strangely grown-up by comparison. Not cynical, not losing that idealism, but applying it better than ever. He could now stand on totally equal footing with members of Congress, arguing with them on the floor rather than in back offices. He had reached his coming-of-age. It sounded ridiculous, but it was true.

So much had changed... sometimes he barely recognized himself.

So much had changed... for the President. His shifts in staff, his last year in office, his international struggles... his health...

Memory dredged up a new thought. "How’s the State of the Union coming, sir?" One thing that Sam dearly missed was the speechwriting. He wrote most of the content for his own speeches, but they were fewer in number and smaller in scope.

Again Bartlet didn’t look up, watching the road immediately ahead of him. His frown, though, appeared to extend beyond concentration. "I am _not_ looking forward to it."

Sam blinked. Usually this man loved the chance to address the nation, to call upon his skills at oration, to encompass his audience with words and touch their hearts.

"It’ll be my last." That right there was reason enough for depression. "And I’ll have to stand through the whole thing." The President exhaled a bit more heavily than walking required. "I can only hope..."

Hope he could pull it off effectively. Hope he could do it at all.

While Sam fumbled to conjure up some encouragement against that distressing thought, and probably make matters worse in the process, his leader slowed a bit more and turned to look briefly at him.

"You did good in the last election."

The young Congressman shrugged modestly. "Well, I lost the first one – could only go up from there."

"You won on the same platform of tolerance and health coverage and crime crackdown that sank your ship the last time. Your constituents saw that you don’t change your stripes just because the polls say you should or because you lost on the right stance before. They now know you have integrity. I could’ve told them that," The Man added as a playful aside, "but the point is that _you_ told them. You deserved that win."

Sam swallowed a suspicious lump in his throat. "High praise, Mr. President. Thank you."

They shared several strides of amiable silence, and the younger politician soaked it up as though he could store this moment like solar power, to propel him onward into his future. He was following in this great man’s footsteps, had in fact earned the right to walk beside him as a partner rather than merely a subordinate. Not that working so close to the Oval Office hadn’t been an enormous honor in itself... but working in the _other_ House seemed like the most natural progression to his life and the best possible use of all that he had learned here.

Then, gradually, he noticed two things. The first was that they’d passed through most of the White House proper without his paying any attention to its beauty. Even though he’d seen it countless times in the past, that felt like almost an insult to this magnificent and precious museum of the nation.

The second bothered him a whole lot more. It was becoming a greater strain for Bartlet to walk. He breathed more rapidly. Perspiration had begun to break out on his face. His steps grew slightly more erratic.

Sam could’ve kicked himself. The receiving line’s delay had added to the total time the President spent on his feet tonight. Even sitting for long periods could eventually drain his energy, extending his overall exertion past the comfort level, and who knew how much time he’d put into the day already. The limp on his right leg, evident from the start, was more pronounced, and as his legs tired his arms had to bear more and more of his body weight.

Was this his first day for trying to get through work on the crutches? If so, the doctors couldn’t tell in advance how long he’d manage – and neither could he. You don’t know your limit until you hit it.

"Would you like to stop and rest, sir?"

"I’m fine." The reply came immediately, and in a sharp tone of voice that Sam had heard before: a tone bent on convincing the speaker as well as the listener.

"Shall I bring your chair, sir?" That came from Curtis. Sam almost jumped; he hadn’t even noticed this colossus following right behind them all the while, any more than he’d noticed the ever-present Secret Service.

"No." That response could have been foretold by a lot of people. "Riding part of the time fosters the desire to ride _all_ of the time. The less you use your limbs, the less you _want_ to use them, and the less they can handle." Bartlet slowed his pace another notch – not because he wanted to, Sam was sure, but because he had to. "Besides, that thing really reduces my view. Walking gives a much better perspective."

From a security viewpoint, the Secret Service probably liked the crutches even less than the chair itself – but they wouldn’t be able to say much against it. In order to continue his recovery, The Man _had_ to practice walking, or else he’d never be strong enough to walk unaided. That meant spending serious time daily on the crutches, regardless of the public image or the safety complications. He needed to build stamina as well as strength, and he could develop only so much new muscle in two and a half weeks.  While his energy might sustain short bursts, it wasn’t up to long tests of endurance yet. Most likely they all faced a good few weeks of hobbling mobility like this.

"Although," he muttered through gritted teeth, "I appreciated being able to outrun most people in that chair. Really been reversed now..."

Sam threw a pointed glance at Curtis, but clearly the body man had no desire to oppose his boss’s wishes. He remained in their wake, not as invisible as Charlie due to his size, but amazingly discreet for all that. He carried the executive folder on the meeting, since Bartlet couldn’t carry a thing.

"You following the campaign?" Clearly the President wanted to get away from one loaded topic by injecting another.

His former employee played along. He didn’t have much choice. "Absolutely, sir. Do you have any guesses as to who might follow you to the White House?"

"I’m not allowed to show a preference. Shouldn’t even risk offering any opinions. It’d leak at some point for sure." The sentences were growing shorter, more staccato, interspersed by accelerated respiration.

Sam clung to the subject, unable to do otherwise, hoping that chatter would distract them all. "Your secret would be safe with me." For the sake of curiosity, he _would_ like to hear his leader’s evaluation on which candidate was best suited for this incredible responsibility.

Bartlet didn’t raise his head, grimly set on his course. "I’m more interested in when I’ll see... _your_ name on the ballot."

Sam braked in his tracks.

The Man said once before that his Deputy Communications Director would someday run for President. That had been a relaxed spell of shooting the breeze, over a private chess game, and long before Sam even thought of running for Congress. But now that he’d gained one win –

President? _Him?_

Feeling almost light-headed, he moved to catch up – physically and mentally. "I..." Again he had to fight a constricted throat. "I don’t know about that myself."

"Just asking." That dismissive response resembled a parent trying to nudge his child along with a little reverse psychology. "After all... 2010 is... pretty far away."

Sam experienced a tremor of apprehension. Was this what destiny felt like? "Put that way, it doesn’t sound far off at all."

_"Good."_ Yes, definitely a bit of subterfuge there.

Before this native of Orange County could stop his spinning mind, Curtis interrupted. "Sir?"

"Now what?" The President did not stop, as if starting up anew would cost him too much.

The body man indicated a corridor to their left. "You missed the turnoff."

"Did not."

Sam frowned at Curtis in confusion – and then he looked ahead. Bartlet was clunking his slow, laborious way straight towards a set of three steps leading upwards into the East Wing.

Steps.

"Sir?" Sam heard the concern in his own voice that time.

"That detour will add... five minutes to this stroll," The Man objected tiredly. "Shortest distance between... two points..."

He continued forward, drawing by increments towards a bump in the road that he probably used to jog up and bounce down – a bump that now assumed the scale of Mount McKinley.

The White House was fully accessible... almost. In any building, no matter how open to the handicapped, there are _always_ stairs someplace.

Sam tried again. He did not like the thought of his President experimenting with stairs while still relatively new to his crutches, much less while in a state of advanced weariness. The nervousness that Curtis couldn’t hide only added to his own unease. "Sir –"

"No ramp here. Too narrow. Just as well... almost impossible on crutches anyway." Bartlet shook his head. "Amazing... how many barriers exist to... the mobility-challenged. Things that... sound people don’t even notice."

Sam didn’t argue that fact, but some other reassurance would be most welcome. He fell back a bit, caught the body man’s eye and asked softly, "Has he tried steps before this?"

The answering headshake jacked his tension to ceiling height.

"Nothing wrong with my _hearing_ ," The Man groused. By now he had pulled ahead about four paces, closing the distance to his next endeavor. "And I am _going_ to master stairs again. There’s just too many of them."

When did this man ever do exactly what he was expected to do? If it wasn’t "polishing" his speeches even after they’d been finalized, or launching a trivia lesson in the middle of a debate, it was choosing an unorthodox solution to a political problem or an unexpected candidate for a tough job or an ideological route despite the public complications...

Sam threw diplomacy out the window and hurried forward until he actually blocked his leader’s path. "Uh, sir? Maybe...?"

The President stopped at last – he had no alternative – and glared up at his former Deputy Communications Director.

He showed every evidence of exhaustion: sweat on his face, hair scattered across his forehead, breath rate way up, arms trembling visibly, shoulders hunched more than ever. Sam couldn’t imagine how much his legs had to be hurting by now, or the ache in his upper body from compensating. He was losing strength, even just standing still... and yet his determination to not give up never backed down.

He wouldn’t dare tackle a full staircase, but this short stretch might look at least a bit less formidable. At the very least, he was dead-set on trying.

One additional motive might be the desire to show up at his wife’s office on his own two feet, just to prove to her and to himself that he could do it. If he arrived in the chair instead, she’d know that he _over_ did it.

Conversely, it wouldn’t look good if he staggered in and promptly fell over. At this point, he was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t.

Or, he could be so tired that frustration at his limitations had overridden common sense.

One thing he never considered was turning away.

_"Move."_ The word emerged one thin inch short of a growl.

Sam was struck by a sudden vision: restraining his national leader by force. From the looks of things, nothing else would work. Physically simple, emotionally unthinkable. He accepted the only other option left: he inclined his head in capitulation, and stepped aside.

Slowly, Bartlet got himself moving forward again and negotiated the last few yards.

The creak and clatter of the metal crutches echoed in the nerve-racking quiet.

Suddenly Sam realized the mistake he’d made: he should have preceded his former boss up those stairs rather than merely give ground. That way, he’d have been in position to play catcher to a forward tumble, while Curtis remained to guard the rear. Too late now; he couldn’t easily pass on the narrow steps themselves, and even if he took the detour at a run he might not arrive on the upper landing in time.

One godsend: the steps themselves were short and long, providing a fair amount of space between each level.

Another good sign: there was no one else around at the moment. No spectators to their leader’s newest battle.

A railing ran along one wall, but his hands were otherwise occupied. Breathing now in short, harsh grunts, he raised his right foot, planted it on the first stair, and set the ferrule of the right crutch beside it. Balancing more awkwardly than ever, he lifted the left crutch in turn. This threw most of his weight onto his left leg, which – even though it was the stronger of the two – must have screamed in protest. Leaning dangerously far forward, he bore down on his three other supports and very slowly drew that leg up beside its mate.

Sam didn’t dare breathe. This victory was a transient thing; that torturous effort had to be repeated twice more.

This time the President tried to raise his trailing leg while its companion crutch remained on the lower step, probably with the hope that it might be marginally easier to push down with the arm set at the lower altitude. That, however, canted his entire body severely to one side, exceeding the capabilities of his balance; he’d have fallen for sure if he hadn’t been able to slump against the wall. Teeth grinding, chest heaving, he returned to the previous method. Having the crutches just one hand-span higher than usual put a fearful strain on almost every thoracic muscle he had. It took four tries, the first three aborted at the last instant before inevitable collapse... but finally he stood on the second step.

Sam inched closer, fists clenched, wishing with all his strength that he could _offer_ his strength. One endless stair to go.

The Man had already discovered the hard way that lifting his weight _up_ was infinitely more difficult than merely shifting it forward, and his energy had been dangerously drained even before this stage. Just as it looked like he would make it to the top, his arms finally reached their maximum tolerance. They started to buckle, and he couldn’t do a thing to prevent it. His weight descended in full onto his left leg, his left knee gave out, his braced ankle started to bow the wrong way, his raised foot tripped on the top step, and he virtually cartwheeled forward. Metal and biological limbs windmilling in all directions.

_"SIR!"_ Sam lunged, just too late to prevent his leader from crashing full-length.

By some miracle, Bartlet landed on one shoulder rather than on his face, and the crutches clattered clear, not trapping his arms or wrenching his wrists. Even so, everyone heard the anguished gasp as precious air was driven from his lungs.

One overstressed heartbeat later, Sam, Curtis and at least five formerly-invisible Secret Service agents were clustered around him. Multiple hands steadied his body, cradled his head, felt for his pulse.

"Mr. President!" Horrified images of broken bones and internal injuries and additional damage to weakened nerve endings cannoned through Sam’s brain.

"Don’t – panic." The words emerged around gulps for air, instantly alleviating the worst fears. "Had... more than enough of that."

The young Congressman exhaled gustily at the wave of relief. Had it been his imagination, or did the nearest agents react in a similar manner? At least they weren’t broadcasting "Liberty’s down!" this time. That had to be a positive sign.

"Are you all right?" That question came out instinctively, stupid though it be.

Bartlet arduously raised his head and craned his neck to look himself over. "All appendages still attached," he muttered. Even crushing fatigue couldn’t smother his sardonic humor. Then he looked beyond. "And – I made it up the stairs."

Sam almost laughed. Technically, that was true.

Whether The Man would be able to resume his travels on foot remained to be seen.

"Can you sit up?"

"I’ll manage." He made one attempt that didn’t quite get his shoulders off the floor, and subsided almost at once in hopeless defeat. "Someday. Next month."

"Permission to offer assistance, sir?" Curtis inquired formally, not sounding the least bit condescending. Most people knew not to provide such assistance unless invited. At the weary nod, he slipped his muscular arms under his boss’s sturdy torso and gently eased him into a sitting position against the wall.

Sam crouched in front, watching fearfully for any clue that something worse than a few mild bruises would be paid out for this mishap.

Said mishap had certainly delivered a fine shake-up. Bartlet could have wrenched any number of joints, or his entire back, and none of them would know unless he admitted to it. He also had to have banged his skull into the bargain.

He leaned his head back and spent the next few seconds just breathing. Then he lifted a slightly trembling hand, loosened his tie and shirt collar, tugged his blazer into marginally less disarray, and wiped the perspiration out of his eyes.

"Well, what are you all waiting for? I’m _not_ staying here."

Curtis took that as an order and withdrew his support by increments, until he was sure he wasn’t needed. Then he rose and collected the dispersed crutches.

Sam’s brows rose in stark disbelief.

The President’s brows descended in stubborn intent.

This time no one moved to help him. If he could do it by himself, well and good. If not, he would have his own answer – and theirs.

He tried, with everything he had left. He sucked in a deep breath, rocked forward and tried to push himself to his knees. His legs refused to cooperate first, his arms second. This dual failure rocked him backward, smacking his head against the wall.

Sam hissed in empathy. Surely some others winced at least.

For a long moment, Bartlet just sat there with his eyes squeezed shut. Then, as the pain faded, his broad shoulders sagged a fraction more. "No use. Out of gas."

It must have hurt to admit that, but at least he finally saw sense.

"I’ll be right back, sir." Curtis withdrew and hurried down the hall towards the West Wing, no doubt to fetch the chair.

The bodyguards retreated as well, surreptitiously sealing both ends of the corridor against passers-by, providing that privacy at least. One agent addressed his cufflink and summoned "Sawhorse," their code for the White House physician. Of course he’d have to be notified about any fall.

Sam spotted an executive eye-roll at the same conclusion, and at the dreaded check-up to come. No way could The Man get out of it now. But at least there was comfort in the knowledge that no new injury would go undiagnosed or untreated.

Quiet settled over this otherwise vacant corridor.

Sam glanced around, but until that chair came no one could do much. So he shrugged and obtained a seat against the opposite wall, which lowered him to the same eye level. At least he could offer some nonjudgmental company, and he was perfectly prepared to sit there all evening if it would help his leader even a little.

The President’s eyes remained closed as he replenished his oxygen supply and waited for his cardiovascular system to stabilize. His former employee fidgeted, acutely disliking this sensation of helplessness. Finally, he just had to say something.

"For what it’s worth, sir – I think you’ve made wonderful progress."

At first Bartlet ignored him, and Sam feared that his well-meant compliment didn’t provide the encouragement he’d intended. Then the leader of the free world shifted in place, as though seeking a more comfortable position... as though it were perfectly normal for him to sit on the hard floor in a hallway in the East Wing of the White House Complex... as though resigning himself to a long vigil... as though he were actually enjoying this unplanned interlude.

"If I’d had any dignity left before today, we sure took care of that."

Pause. "Actually, Mr. President, I think you’ve brought a lot of dignity to the entire subject." At the impatient huff from his former boss, Sam nodded seriously. "And I’m not the only one in my constituency who says so."

Bartlet looked away. "I’ve got no right to complain. Some people will never get better."

"And that’s why those same people are glad for your sake that you won’t be numbered among them forever."

The President turned that declaration over in his head several times... and slowly his features smoothed out, revealing an even deeper gratitude for his former senior staffer’s visit.

Then his brows pinched. "An optimistic outlook will work to my disadvantage in one way: Abbey’s going to whale the hide off of me, knowing I can take it after all."

Sam knew that was a slight exaggeration; the First Lady’s scolding would be fuelled by concern rather than castigation. He opted for lightening the mood. "If it’ll help deflect the heat from you, I can tell her that I talked you into it."

 That famous azure vision peered at him, worn out yet still capable of amusement. "Now that _would_ be taking the bullet for me." A dry chuckle followed. "Nah, I wouldn’t ask such a sacrifice of anyone." Then The Man sat up a bit straighter, an indication that he was starting to recuperate. "Here’s a better idea. Can you stick around for awhile yet?"

"Of course, sir." Sam had some other people yet to visit anyway, but even that joy paled before any executive service he could provide.

"Good. Let’s have a chess match later. No one tries to deny me _that_ method of escape."

It would be just like old times.

The former White House employee grinned. "With pleasure, Mr. President."


	22. Sitting President, The 22

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 22:** _JOHN HOYNES_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

Many Americans who visit the White House are swept away by awe, history and patriotism. Some feel a surge of ambition, dreaming of the day they might work there themselves. And some few experience resentment that they _don’t_ work there. Yet.

Many people who resign from a job do so with regret or embarrassment that there is no better option. Some do so eagerly, getting out of a bad situation or reaching towards new potential. And some few use the resignation itself as a tool, a propitious bit of timing.

The former Vice President of the United States knew that he would forever regard 1600 Pennsylvania with longing and bitterness – unless he won the right to claim it. He had been edged out in one election, then had the promise of a single term reneged. To add insult to injury, throughout his entire tenure as the official second-in-command and the possible stand-in, he had been constantly aware of a lingering distrust aimed his way... and not exclusively by the man who overrode him both times.

To himself alone he admitted that, if he _had_ to resign, his departure could not have happened at a more advantageous moment from his perspective. He’d refused all efforts to keep him around, and there had been more than a few of them. Many people thought resignation was the decent thing to do, but others puzzled over why he didn’t at least try to tough it out; politicians made mistakes all the time. His decision had been based on both propriety _and_ with a weather eye on the future. This way, he’d been able to distance himself from federal politics and his public record of nuptial infidelity long enough to let the worst part of that memory fade before he reactivated the _best_ part of that memory in his own run for the Oval Office.

Still, he frequently wondered what might have happened if he hadn’t resigned after all. Not so much in a vain hope to maintain some kind of dignity towards his very high-ranking position; the Vice-Presidency deserved the respect that he’d shown it. He’d just never considered how an extramarital affair by one man could have had such devastating repercussions for an entire country.

If he’d still been in office when the President’s youngest daughter was kidnapped, the Twenty-fifth would have worked _much_ more smoothly. Forget the petty conflicts and restrained bickering between him and his national leader for five years before then; that time he felt that he had really let The Man down.

Furthermore, if he had been sworn in, even if it had been for only two days, imagine his campaign now. He would still have had to step down when the President resumed command, but that would have left him with direct experience in the Oval Office and the full title to boot.

On the other hand, would he have done as decent a job as Glen Walken? He’d handled the stomach-dropping fallout from Rosslyn, but that was comparatively simple and far shorter-lived. He had way more knowledge in foreign policy, yet just one bad decision on his part in the heat of the moment almost three years ago could have cost Zoey Bartlet her life and Jed Bartlet his sanity.

Perhaps it was better that John Hoynes never know.

Did the President blame him for screwing up at the worst possible time, even though things turned out all right in the end? Would the American people blame him? So far, no one’s come out and said so, but then the really bitter campaign debates were still to come...

Certainly there were some Democrats who did blame him – thanks to his mistake, they’d been forced to let a Republican into the Oval Office. No matter how temporary the Walken Administration turned out to be, many railed under it. Yet even the worst die-hards had to acknowledge that Walken handled the crisis well. Besides, it’s not as though he contaminated the entire White House during those frenetic forty-odd hours. Certainly he wasn’t around long enough to affect one aspect of the Democrat agenda.

Curiously, the man most often targeted by Republican criticism was never known to be particularly scathing of the opposite Party in general. Bartlet respected others’ opinions, accepted the tradition of and need for partisan politics, surmounted those limitations when he could, and worked within them to the best of his abilities the rest of the time. Even Leo, one of the longest-serving politicians around today, kept an open mind and remained reasonably forbearing towards their adversaries – again, in general. Committees that stonewalled and individuals who launched personal attacks received no such tolerance, but a person or an idea was not instantly rejected just because of official ties to the other side of the floor. Hoynes had to reluctantly admire both men for that breadth of vision. It was Josh who loomed closest to a blanket hatred of all things Republican, a factor that contributed to his energy and his single-minded approach.

Thinking of Josh reminded Hoynes of the many changes that had taken place since he departed from this administration. By all reports the White House was adapting, with difficulty, but adapting all the same, to suddenly having no Deputy Chief of Staff _and_ no Press Secretary. Toby had established his own persona with the media – probably the most confrontational style in the history of the Press Room. C.J. was turning out to be almost as good a Chief of Staff as Leo himself. And Leo remained in the picture in an unofficial capacity; Bartlet would never be so stupid as to deny himself such excellent counsel, much less such stabilizing friendship.

These negative _and_ positive aspects paralleled the changes in Hoynes’ own life. At first he was glad to get out of federal politics, but that didn’t last; it had become too much of his life. His campaign for President was admittedly simplified by his lack of duties as _Vice_ President and the corresponding fewer distractions. He had been glad to see the back of the Secret Service, with all their restrictions and constant presence... yet not unhappy to see them return after he announced his candidacy. After all, few people in the world are important enough to deserve such protection. Then again, he wondered if he would be less vulnerable without the bodyguards after all, since they could attract the wrong kind of attention just by being around.

Robert F. Kennedy would disagree.

Speaking of the campaign... Hoynes was more worried than he let on. Sure, he remained in second place and crowding Russell close with each poll. However, Russell somehow managed to steal Will Bailey right out of the White House. Hoynes had met the young man only a few times, yet had heard a great deal about his talents of late – and seen some of the evidence. Plus, Russell got to exploit the title of the Vice-Presidency, with its influence and its war chest. He had temporarily stalled his own campaign in order to supplement some executive duties, but he was starting to gear up again, and with a considerable boost to his image as a result.

Hoynes had wanted Josh on his team for good reason. If he’d listened to Josh the first time, he would have certainly captured the nomination eight years ago and quite probably attained the Presidency as a result. Josh wasn’t solely responsible for Bartlet’s success, but he’d played a strong hand in it. Why Josh chose to leave the President for a rank amateur like Matt Santos, Hoynes still couldn’t figure out... but he respected Josh’s skills too much to dismiss that stunt for the lark it should be. Josh was just too good at what he did. His dark horse candidate could prove very inconvenient for Hoynes and Russell both.

Disregarding all of the foregoing, Hoynes was still the most experienced politician in the race, and the one with the most friends on the Hill. He had carried the Democratic vote in a few notoriously Republican states before, and he confidently promised those friends that he could do it again. Besides, anyone who _knew_ Russell wouldn’t want him anywhere near the Oval Office; he lacked initiative and strength of personality, and was all too eager to trade favors. And no one knew Santos at all – he didn’t seem the type to play the deal game much, which was admirable but impractical. This campaign was far from over.

Ergo, Hoynes thought, as he neared the main entrance of the White House with briefcase in hand, come November this splendid building and all its political power might yet be his.

Uniformed honor guards opened the double doors in unison. Black-suited agents followed behind. He appreciated the service, and the escort; anyone with even a moderate ego would. He had no official standing any longer, but he was still a big player in the Party and a VIP visitor of no small account.

Once inside, he didn’t need to be directed; he’d come here numerous times past, and he led the way to prove it. He moved through the halls at a dignified pace: not too fast, as though he was too important to rush at _anyone’s_ bidding, yet not too slow, as though he still had many vital demands upon his time. He strode across the Seal in the lobby floor and passed the Seal on the wall without a glance at either. Until it referred to _him,_ he preferred to ignore it.

He felt no rancor about being "asked" to come here this afternoon. The President had requested a special briefing about certain obstinate lobbies headquartered in the South, and John Hoynes remained one of very few in Washington with the degree of influence in "southern" politics that could gain a position for the White House on some of the more delicate issues, which translated into votes in Congress. Due to his undisputed authority in this field, and in deference to his past office, he had politely insisted upon dealing with the President directly. This had nothing to do with the campaign.

It could, however, look very good for him _during_ the campaign. None of his fellow candidates had been consulted on this or any other matter of comparable importance. Granted, Russell still had his own duties and sway as VP, but had he come here for a special briefing based on his knowledge alone? Had Santos? Hardly.

Hoynes didn’t fool himself: this was in no way an endorsement by the Oval Office. As the leader of the Party, Bartlet had to remain scrupulously neutral while the candidates duked it out and the people finally made their choice. On the other hand, he didn’t hesitate to make use of the valuable skills that others possessed. Here the _former_ Vice President had the definable edge.

There was yet another bonus to this invitation: Hoynes had not seen the President since his resignation almost three years ago, much less since the widely-covered China summit and the even more extensively-covered relapse. He and Jed Bartlet would never develop a close friendship – they were just too different – but he envied his leader’s charisma, integrity and expertise. Like untold others, he had been shocked by the medical bulletin, and scarcely able to imagine that such a vital and energetic individual could be so crippled. He really did want to see how The Man was doing. Positive media reports and encouraging public appearances aside, if one should have the chance to visit in person...

He passed numerous staffers in the corridors without really looking at them, but he felt their eyes. He was always conscious of their scrutiny when he dropped by. Maybe their attitudes were a bit less uncomfortable with him now than they used to be, though. Russell alone would be an incentive for that: they were seeing what they had lost, and regretted it.

A sudden scratching invaded the back of his throat and spiraled upward, compelling him to cough lightly into one fist. That annoying tickle had pursued him for the past two days, and while it showed no signs of worsening it did cramp his style.

As he resumed his route, not far from his destination now... he happened to glimpse a few rather strange glances from the spectators on the sidelines. Curious. The mood seemed to be shifting a bit. Did this specific hall belong to the employees who liked him the least? Or was it just his imagination? That seemed more likely.

He turned one last corner – and came face to face with the Chief of Staff.

"C.J."

"Mr. Vice President." She smiled slightly, and gave him the grace of his old title without vacillation. Of course no one here could risk slighting him when they were currently counting on his aid.

He knew how to be magnanimous as well, and today he could afford it. "‘John’ will do."

She inclined her head at the offer, but didn’t take him up on it. "This way, please."

He fell into step alongside, his head at the same level as hers, his brain putting clues together. She had intercepted him before the Oval and was now heading towards her new office. Clearly she wanted to speak with him in private first.

"Congratulations on your promotion. I hear you’re doing a bang-up job."

She tossed him a silent, unreadable glance. Upon reflection he admitted to himself that, considering their history, he could have chosen a different phrase. The English language is replete with double entendres.

Her gaze was reserved, yet not really cool, and her attitude suitably modest. "It’s been an exercise in applied madness, but I have good teachers."

"Yes, how is Leo doing? I’ve spoken to him over the last few months, but we haven’t crossed paths." They too had some unpleasant history, political and not so. Leo brought Hoynes onto the Bartlet ticket, then spent most of the next five years running interference between President and _Vice_ President. In the meantime, each man had backed the other in his constant fight against alcoholism.

C.J. directed him past Margaret, who nodded politely, and into her own workspace. "He’s back to his old self." She shut the door.

"Great news." Hoynes genuinely meant it.

He cast one look around the office, noting that she had altered it somewhat... but Leo’s influence could still be seen. Perhaps she still didn’t feel comfortable yet with the idea of so completely usurping the title and space of someone she respected so much.

"Just don’t let it happen to _you_." He meant that, too. C.J. Cregg was no less a workaholic than Leo McGarry, and he most definitely did not want her to suffer through the same crisis.

She flickered a smile at the sentiment.

For about two seconds they stood facing each other in silence.

"I’ve been meaning to call you up and thank you." Her awkward pause explained everything to him. "For leaving me out of –"

He waved it off. Even though nobody could overhear, he had no desire to discuss his tell-all book just now either. "You made a request. I honored it." He’d planned all along to write about his political life, not his personal life; the public had hashed out the more sordid parts of that on their own. _Full Disclosure_ was the foundation of his comeback as a candidate for the White House, not the talk show circuit.

"And I’ll remember that you did." C.J. certainly wasn’t giving him any blanket promises, but he deserved her gratitude at the least, and she must’ve felt that she owed him a favor. He did not plan to call in this marker, but he wouldn’t forget it.

The atmosphere between them remained a bit tense, yet civil enough.

"I hear your campaign’s going well. I’m glad." That could have been construed as small talk, but her tone contained just an extra trace of sincerity.

Hoynes chose to read more into it. While the White House Chief of Staff couldn’t endorse a candidate any more than the President could, she had told him – without actually telling him – that a positive campaign for him would also be a good thing for some of them.

Of course, almost _anyone_ would be better than the alternatives...

"Thanks," he said simply, and no less sincerely. Some things shouldn’t be said aloud, but they can be imparted more subtly... not too different from politics in general.

"We heard that you’re taking a break from the trail." That was a question.

"Only for a couple of days." His suspicions were starting to buzz; the small talk seemed to be dragging on. He’d arrived on time...

He decided to grab the bull by the horns. "Not that I’m not enjoying this chat, but we do have a meeting, right?" It would be just his luck that some major crisis had whisked the President away at the very moment that his chief consultant in this meeting walked into the building.

"We do indeed. I need to know one thing before that, though –"

Without warning, another cough made itself felt. Hoynes turned his head aside and again muffled it with his free hand, then cleared his throat in irritation. "Excuse me."

Had he imagined it, or did C.J. just flinch?

"And I have my answer," she observed quietly.

"WhyI put the campaign on hold? Yeah." He pulled a face. "I want to kick this cough first. It doesn’t make me look especially robust to the voters."

For another heartbeat she just stood there and studied him. He couldn’t read her expression at all. What was she thinking now?

"Okay." She drew herself up – not in any attempt to intimidate him, he was sure, since they were the same height, but in decision. "I’m going to ask you another favor, and I know you’re not going to like it."

His wariness increased. She hadn’t apologized in advance, a second danger sign. Whatever this favor might be, she wasn’t prepared to negotiate.

"And that is?"

"Take your meeting with the President by phone."

He blinked. And then he stared.

"Why?"

"You have a cold. You shouldn’t go near him."

He snorted. "It’s a little bitty cough!"

"It’s a medium for infection, and none of us want that around the President right now."

"You’re not serious."

C.J. didn’t give an inch. "Try me."

Hoynes shifted from exasperation to concern. "Is his health that fragile?"

"I don’t want to find out after the fact that it is."

Suspicions refused to just lie down and die. "This wouldn’t be some half-assed subterfuge to keep me out of what’s turned into an _inconvenient_ briefing, would it?" He’d seen that tactic used before, although no one had dared to try it with him in the past eight years. You can’t _not_ have the central person present, and Bartlet knew whom to expect today. The only way such a brush-off could work here was if he wanted it to as well.

Her words sharpened, flint on steel. "I will not dignify that accusation with a reply."

She _was_ serious. Exasperation returned in full strength. "A minor cough like this in a big room like that, for a meeting as important as we all know it to be?"

This time her eyes spat sparks, in sharp contrast to the frost in her tone. "So you’re willing to put the brakes on your campaign and give your opponents an advantage in order to look strong for the voters, but you don’t have any qualms about directly threatening the health of the President of the United States."

She sounded more than willing to sic the Secret Service on him right now.

More than ever, Hoynes remembered why he’d been attracted to this woman... and still was. It had always gone beyond her physical beauty and her tall grace, despite his appreciation for both. Most of all, he liked her spirit: the way she could look him in the eye, acknowledge his position and still get in his face – even threaten him when she deemed it appropriate, and when she had logic on her side. He knew that she had done so in the past to other senior politicians, and to top-ranking generals, and (he suspected) to the leader of the free world.

And she did have a valid point today.

Interesting how a simple cough could become so much more... again, much like the fine art of politics.

That didn’t stop him from smarting under this unnecessary restriction. "I’m not infectious."

"We’re not taking any chances. With _anything._ "

Ah, now he understood the peculiar jump in the local employees’ nervousness after his throat-tickle in the corridor. The entire White House had adopted a zero-tolerance approach towards any conceivable danger to their leader’s recovery. They couldn’t cure the MS, no matter how badly they must wish for that miracle, but they were determined to ensure that no other complications arose. This was draconian, excessive... and touching.

In fact, the former Vice President was prepared to bet that anyone else with the merest illness, whether among the staff or on the guest list, in just about any capacity, would be banished from the entire West Wing so long as it didn’t touch off an international incident.

Then an even more entertaining thought came to mind. "Betcha he’s not too thrilled with this group arrangement of yours."

Now C.J. really hesitated, and instantly her visitor knew what was coming next.

"He doesn’t know yet," she finally confessed.

Hoynes raised an eyebrow. "You’d better hope he never finds out."

"Amen."

Pause.

If he refused her demand, what would she do next? Beg him? Bar him? What promises or encumbrances might she or the rest of the senior staff be capable of engineering? A secret dinner for two? A leak about his insensitivity to the newspapers?

"Okay." In the end, any possible favor or retribution didn’t matter. If they saw The Man every day and they were that concerned, Hoynes was prepared to defer to their judgment. He wouldn’t wish actual harm to Jed Bartlet for anything – not even the Presidency itself.

C.J. relaxed, her relief palpable. This could have become ugly on several levels. "Thank you, John."

He found himself relaxing in turn. She’d never want to renew their one-time relationship, he knew, but he felt better to have earned her respect again.

"Make yourself comfortable." A guest chair stood in front of her desk, but instead she graciously offered him her own spot. He inclined his head in tribute to this gesture. "We’ll ring you in a few moments."

He waited until she’d exited into the hall, no doubt to round up the rest of the senior staff, before settling himself within easy reach of the phone. Both doors into this office remained closed, which was just as well given the sensitive conversation ahead. Besides, anyone looking for the Chief of Staff would be in for a considerable surprise.

His throat scratched again, and he wished fiercely that he’d brought some water along. Glancing idly about, he spotted a couple of small water bottles on the ledge near the window. A closer examination showed that they still had intact seals. He broke one open and drank, making a mental note to replace it later and to thank C.J. for saving his life. Any debt she might think she owed him had just been paid in full.

The first scene to the act opening any moment now inside the Oval Office should be comical, and Hoynes _really_ wished he could watch. He realized with disappointment that he wouldn’t get to see the President this way. What a time for him to develop a totally minor cough. And with the race so tight, too...

He put that topic aside and focused on why he’d come here. As he placed his briefcase on the desktop and popped it open, he tried to picture what was happening on the other side of that inner door. No voices carried through the polished wood. Surely _one_ would be raised when C.J. tried to defend the long-distance approach. Had there been some other delay...?

The phone rang. Hoping the person on the other end of the line was the person he had come to see – or else this would be a very problematic call – he hit the speaker toggle. "Hoynes."

_"Where on earth are you, John?"_

He smiled. That sharp baritone could belong to only one man. "Right next door, Mr. President." Someone else must have dialed the number; otherwise its familiar digits would have given everything away. He purposely made this sound like he was in his former office in the OEOB. He had quite enough explaining to do already.

_"And the reason you aren’t over HERE is...?"_

Only the truth would serve. "I have a slight head cold."

A dangerous pause. _"You think I care about the state of your sinuses when we’re supposed to be debating the state of the Confederacy?"_

Plainly C.J. hadn’t had time to justify this game plan in advance. Hoynes made the instant decision not to rat her out; that wouldn’t befit a gentleman. "This way you don’t have to worry about catching anything from –"

_"Oh, for the love of God."_ It seemed that whatever health repercussions The Man _was_ having impacted negatively upon his patience. Who’d have thought?

_"It was at my request, sir."_ That was C.J.’s voice, as she refused to let Hoynes take the heat for her. His grin returned; she always had been a lady of the first order.

_"It’s not enough that my work hours have been reduced to minutes; you want to control the air I breathe, too?"_

_"If the air is harmful –"_ That quiet drawl had to be Toby.

_"Now you guys are just being silly."_

Hoynes had to resist the urge to laugh out loud as he listened to this over the line.

_"John, get over here. I’m going to do this face to face, and with no more nonsense from anyone. We’ll wait for you."_

"Yes, sir." He toggled off, tucked the water bottle inside his briefcase, closed its lid, rose, took hold of the grip and headed for the direct route to the Oval Office. Fortunately his travel time would be too brief for their Commander-in-Chief to chew out any staffers over well-meant yet unwanted efforts to safeguard him.

He paused, with one hand on the knob. He was about to enter the high seat of authority for the last and greatest superpower on earth, the chamber that he coveted more than anything else in the world... and he would be exposed for the first time to the jarring sight of the President of the United States suddenly condemned to a wheelchair.

When he stepped through the portal, trying to be nonchalant about it, Bartlet looked up fast. For one endless second both men froze, each in amazement at the totally unexpected appearance of the other.

Hoynes would have enjoyed causing some of that amazement if he hadn’t been so struck by his own. His leader didn’t occupy a wheelchair. He sat in an armchair.

In fact, there was no sign of the wheelchair anywhere. The only clue to infirmity was a pair of steel forearm crutches propped against the sofa within his reach.

Bartlet recovered first. "When you said ‘next door,’ you weren’t exaggerating," he observed mildly.

The former Vice President beat down his own reaction. "I wanted to be on hand." He nodded a more formal greeting as he advanced.

 "Well, we both seem to have survived this conspiracy." The Man glared at the trio of staff members before him, all of whom looked downright guilty. "Have a seat."

"Thanks." Hoynes wisely chose the spot furthest from that armchair. Charlie Young readily made room for him.

"Let’s get started." Bartlet donned his reading glasses, still a bit miffed at being handled like this. "I don’t have time for paranoia."

Hoynes agreed. This was the sort of ridiculous precaution that comes out when people have the best motives, yet their common sense shuts down – briefly, substantially, and out of love and sheer overprotectiveness – until they themselves realize the pointlessness of it. Which, given how smart these people were, would have been very soon anyway... except that their President beat them to it.

An added advantage: for an outsider, it had been entertaining to observe.

Having settled himself, Hoynes took the next few moments to study the man who was _his_ President as well.

Bartlet sat in that armchair as though nothing at all could be wrong, pen in his hand, papers on his lap. He did look tired, the way he used to after a long day’s work, and it wasn’t even eight-fifteen. Still, both arms moved easily, without obvious discomfort or weakness. One doesn’t normally move one’s legs much in a situation like this; at the moment there was no indication at all of his heartbreaking inability to walk.

Or _could_ he walk? Those crutches suggested otherwise. No doubt it required a lot more effort and a near-total surrender of dignity, yet it implied a lot of recent progress. It would also account in part for that weariness so early in the day.

If he was already getting around on his own steam, then the White House should be back to normal before much longer. That made for very good news all round.

Hoynes reined in his distraction before anyone noticed. He had satisfied himself that his Chief Executive was on the road to recovery, even more so than he’d dared hope. Time to concentrate on the business at hand. He opened his briefcase, removing the water bottle first. There would be no coughing in here if he could possibly help it.

The air in this room produced its own unique brand of tension – understandable when one contemplated the tremendous responsibility behind every decision made here – but he thought he detected a slightly different flavor on top of that. Bartlet and Leo would be wary around him for a long time yet, recalling the threatened hatchet job they’d expected his memoirs to do to them both and to the administration at large. Toby shared that sentiment in full. Despite her relief that she’d been left out entirely from those same pages, C.J. would not hesitate to stand by them had her leader and her colleagues come under attack. And Charlie, a recent addition to the ranks of political operatives, nevertheless had his own long history of presidential support. Just because that public attack never materialized didn’t mean that the tension merely went away.

Hoynes tried not to smirk. He’d softened the final draft after showing a select few the first. Causing that worry – unfounded, as they only found out much later – had been his private revenge for some of the stinging slights he’d received while in office.

On the other hand, his praise of Josh had been wasted. If only...

Another possible source of this tension was the still-fresh memory of his resignation in disgrace, and the extended chaos that followed not so long after. Hoynes accepted the criticism that he had opened the door for Walken, but surely these intelligent operatives couldn’t blame him for Russell. If he hadn’t resigned when he did, he would have needed to do so prior to his own swearing-in, since no one could hold down two government positions simultaneously. Then, upon Bartlet’s reinstatement to full executive authority, Hoynes could hardly have gone back to Vice President. They would’ve had to choose a new VP anyway, and Russell was right there all along. Considering the congressional temperament of the day, the Democrats would have been stuck with that compromise just the same.

Or maybe not. If Hoynes _had_ been elevated to the Oval Office, and then stepped down at the end of the crisis, he would have made _damned_ sure that the administration got a new Vice President fast. Plus, he would have had some influence upon the verdict. It might not have been Russell after all if they’d moved quickly and decisively enough. Instead, Bartlet had still waited another few months, consulting just about everyone except the previous holder of the office in question. If one pursued that way of thinking, Hoynes’ mistake did lead indirectly to the debacle of Bingo Bob.

And to his own chief competition in the polls. In that context, he figured that he had already paid whatever penance he deserved as a consequence.

A new idea abruptly surfaced: one that he hadn’t pondered before, if only because it went against conventional practice. _Could_ he have returned to his former position after Bartlet returned to power? The United States had never seen _anyone_ sworn in on a temporary basis before; there was no precedent at all.

What a fascinating concept. True, if he hadn’t, then he would have been "Mr. President" by his own right for the rest of his life. But if he had...

For starters, how would anyone address him afterwards? To return to "Mr. _Vice_ President" would have fit the office and eliminated guaranteed confusion, but it would also have been a veritable demotion – as if he no longer deserved the more elevated distinction. Still, he could have salved his pride a bit by voluntarily accepting the lesser title in order to do his job, on condition that the greater be granted anew whether he won the election or not. Surely most people would have had the courtesy to revert to it.

That compromise would have been worth the chance to return _as_ the Vice President, and to campaign accordingly. For one thing, he’d have no major competition at all.

Certainly, winning the election would have quashed any ambiguity for good. If he lost and went on to do something else, it couldn’t be politically related – at least not formally. Walken never took on any new office for the same reason. But Hoynes was still fairly young and would like to keep active in public office.

When he really worked it out, just maybe it _was_ for the best in the end that he had escaped the shortest White House tenure in history. This way, if he did lose he could even run again without four years of enforced idleness in the interim.

Still, he had his best shot now. He wanted it _now!_

It really is astonishing as to how fast the human brain can process large amounts of information. All of these thoughts came and went even before Bartlet called this disrupted meeting to order. Hoynes came back to himself, jettisoned the hypotheticals and latched onto reality. This briefing was what mattered right now. The campaign could wait an hour.

"John, I appreciate you taking time out to give us a hand here." The President made it clear that he valued the input to come, and the entire subject they’d gathered to discuss.

Despite their lingering friction, Hoynes had always respected his leader, and he had always felt respected in turn. Then again, whispers in certain political circles claimed that Bartlet also extended a similar respect to Russell – which would make him almost the only person around to do so. The office had to have something to do with it, but it said a bit more about The Man himself. Again Hoynes caught himself wondering how he might measure up by comparison. He felt only contempt for Russell, and had a hard time hiding that contempt. He had no interest in Santos, and found it hard to pretend that he did. He wouldn’t make the most wonderful diplomat; that much was certain.

But he’d make a fine President. Anything could be learned if you tried hard enough, and he’d never been better motivated. Plus, he was healthy, experienced in many different levels of government, talented in international policy, a sharp politician, an engaging personality and a good judge of character in his own right. And he was a fast study. Innate immodesty aside, and granting some leniency about his relationship track record that he’d vowed never to repeat, he was convinced that he came closer to Jed Bartlet than any other candidate – or indeed anyone else you’d care to name.

The man he saw as a worthy role model twisted in his chair and secured a few extra notes from the side table, showing a good command of his balance and fair flexibility in his torso. He didn’t cross his legs, though, or shift his posture much, or stand and pace, and those who had seen such displays of vitality from him in the past felt their hearts constrict in sorrow – but did it really matter? His mind hadn’t been affected at all... exactly as Toby’s press conferences and the respectable media had insisted from the start.

"Now." The President consulted two different pages at the same time. "The first thing –"

A partly-stifled sneeze interrupted him.

His three staffers responded as though a bomb had exploded in this room. C.J. whipped around in her seat on the sofa; Toby almost dropped his portfolio; Charlie shot to his feet.

Hoynes rode a wave of embarrassment. That had been his first sneeze of the day, indeed of the entire cold cycle, and it _had_ to happen here. A minor outburst, not even enough to make his eyes water – but he knew that didn’t matter to the people most proximate to him right now.

All three glowered at him. If he’d been almost anyone else, they’d probably order him out of here in unison.

He didn’t enjoy being so openly viewed as a pariah for any reason. At least this time it was on altruistic rather than political grounds, but still... He could only shrug. "Sorry." What’s done is done.

He’d have wagered his entire advertising budget that this trio hoped he’d ask to be excused and return to the teleconference idea without being prompted by one of them. C.J. opened her mouth, most likely to propose that very thing on the spot, refusing personal pride so much as a nod if it would protect her boss –

The President raised his head and peered over the rims of his eyeglasses, wearing a blatant _What the hell?_ expression.

"What is your problem?" He pointedly did not aim that demand at his guest.

All three employees hesitated, well aware of his trademark testiness over the constant fussing about every tiny detail to his health. Especially these days.

He exhaled, not needing an explanation after all. "Fine. Let me put this to rest once and for all. A person is infectious _long_ before he starts showing symptoms of a cold or flu."

Toby redirected his scowl towards his Chief Executive. "And that’s supposed to make us feel better?"

"No, it’s supposed to get your mind off me and on this meeting, since the whole question of sanitizing my surroundings is now beyond your control," Bartlet explained patiently... or not so patiently...

Never before had he ridden to the defense of his former Vice President, on anything. Hoynes offered a nod of acknowledgement and gratitude. He might not have been in _real_ danger of eviction, yet he appreciated the support all the same.

"Besides," The Man went on with apparent seriousness, "I’m looking upon this as a chance to build up my former legendary immunity."

Toby didn’t so much as twitch a hair, but his very stillness proclaimed how his radiating skepticism had notched upwards another few points on the Geiger counter.

Bartlet returned calmly to his paperwork. "Trust me. I’m a doctor."

The not-completely-choked-off snicker came from Charlie, but he had enough self-control not to ramp things up even further by mentioning that the executive doctorate was in economics. The medical distinction belonged to his wife.

Hoynes couldn’t resist. "Wonderful thing, osmosis."

The President rotated his way and permitted a slight grin. For perhaps the first time ever, these two very different men had found a moment of perfect affinity.


	23. Sitting President, The 23

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 23:** _ABBEY BARTLET_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

She had read the same paragraph on the same page of the same report at least five times in a row, and its meaning still refused to sink into her brain. No Nobel Prize to the person who could guess why.

The First Lady of the United States had a surprising amount of her own paperwork to do on a regular basis. Most of it involved reams of information that she needed to know prior to any trip or appearance or correspondence. She was constantly approached with requests to visit various organizations, to speak to their patrons or their target audiences, to help solicit interest and support and funding. She specialized in charities and bastions of American historical and cultural significance. Everyone from children’s clubs to animal shelters to art circles to fashion gurus to restoration societies pleaded for a spot on her schedule – which was second only to her husband’s in complexity. Meanwhile, the Oval Office had its own ideas about the best way to channel her drawing power, and more often than not it involved long-distance travel. She could be relied upon to charm opponents, smooth ruffled feathers and generally reap better political rewards than any lobbyist or even any official ambassador the federal government ever appointed. That was a gratifying compliment, but it added pressure to the prep work since the least error could derail a federal compromise or set foreign relations back a decade.

Finally, after at least fifteen very unproductive minutes she gave up and set the file down on her desk, then redirected her gaze to the wall. If she couldn’t concentrate on her homework, she’d be better off facing the distraction and dealing with it, rather than waste any more time getting nothing at all accomplished.

It was well after lunch, and she’d already attended three meetings and chaired two planning sessions today. Most of these gatherings had been both important and riveting, but the last one pretty much hijacked her thoughts for the rest of the day. The Surgeon General and the official White House physician did not drop in on anyone for reasons of leisure these days. Especially not to the President’s wife.

Not that Millicent and General Souris brought such dreadful tidings this time... still, when three doctors sat down to discuss the severely compromised health of the single most powerful individual in the entire world, their mood could never be called bubbly. The added complications that one was talking about his Commander-in-Chief, one about her old friend, and one about her spouse, boosted the concern way past acceptable levels.

They’d held quite a few of these war councils in the recent past. Jed Bartlet had been subjected to extensive medical testing sessions four times since he returned from China – four occasions, let the record show, that had been punctuated by predictably vociferous protestations on the part of the patient. Not that he had any chance of talking his way out of it, but that didn’t stop him from trying in the hope that _someone_ might listen. Besides, less objection now might lead to expectations that he wouldn’t object as much in the future either, and such a possibility simply could not be borne. Not by him, anyway.

Overall, the test results remained very promising. He _was_ healing, slowly... though no slower than might be projected for a man in his sixties and with otherwise considerable vitality. Healing just cannot be rushed, any more than nature can quickly recover from the devastation wreaked by a volcano. No one could expect the patient to just wake up one day feeling normal. The road back was comprised of a long series of single steps. Yet even the tiniest steps add up, leading to an impressive amount of ground covered over time.

By far the most important news was that all factors pointing towards secondary-progressive consistently came back negative. They hadn’t gone so far as to publish that yet, but this detail made all the difference on all fronts. From the start, the worst was not knowing – if it would get better, or if it would get worse...

There had been discussions about specific matters as well, such as the elevated temperature in the East Room during the Russian delegation’s visit. They’d made a mistake there with the crowd of guests and the almost theatrical touch of lights, which together translated directly into heat; they would not repeat that error no matter what the press wanted. Thank God no real damage had been done.

Then there was Jed’s dramatic chair-topple on the South Lawn. Abbey remembered being informed by her own detail, giving her a brief yet sharp scare before their reassurance that he was all right... and she remembered the TV newscasters gleefully running their instant replays. Fortunately, her accident-prone husband escaped with nothing worse than a few bruises, compounded by being piled on by his own bodyguards, and a beneficial touch of humility. _That_ should teach him to listen to Ron’s advice.

His blow-up in the Situation Room had been far more draining, but it did have one plus: the medical monitor was put to the test and passed with perfect marks. It also showcased Jed’s relative speed of recovery from such exertions, an additional bonus.

His first full day on crutches had been an experiment from the get-go, since no one knew just how much he could take until he took on too much. To the surprise of more than one person, he handled it very well, an extremely encouraging sign... until he attempted the stairs. That hard tumble came perilously close to knocking him right back down the ladder of improvement. When he finally arrived at her office, Abbey had needed all of her self-control not to panic at the sight of him utterly worn out and back in that damned chair. When she heard the explanation, she had needed just as much self-control not to totally blast him for demonstrating the very iron will _they_ were all depending upon as well. She’d never been so grateful to Sam Seaborn in her life; never mind whatever political miracles he had helped pull off while he worked here. He’d been there for a President and a husband and a man in need.

Then came yesterday’s prime example of a bad day. Abbey blamed the draining walk and the punishing fall of the night before; Jed’s energy started off low and refused to go in any direction except down. He pushed his way through the seemingly endless hours all the same, more by pure will than stamina, but it had been a horrid struggle to endure and to watch, and he paid for it in exhaustion. His wife’s morning preparations and even her kiss good-bye failed to fully awaken him. His entire schedule for today had been cancelled as a result.

License or not, Abbey found comfort – or at least some illusion of control – in reviewing the bald medical facts.

The slowly-fading paralysis wasn’t Jed’s real problem now. The most debilitating part of MS is usually the extreme exhaustion that crops up on occasion and with very little warning. It didn’t care a fig that its current sufferer had a country to run... and a mile-wide stubborn streak that preferred to fight the fatigue head-on than circumvent it by taking things easy. He’d had other mornings when he could barely sit up unassisted, much less work, and he couldn’t do one loving thing about it until the spell passed on its own – whenever that might be. The number of days when he felt downright _good_ were increasing, but that had more to do with an easing of the symptoms over time and less to do with how much he slept and how much stress he faced. Naturally, stress and lack of sleep worked directly against him, hence Abbey’s declaration of war against his schedule. He simply _had_ to rest at times, and the Presidency be damned.

Other fairly common symptoms for some people included a shaking of the hands – which would play havoc with a man who did a tremendous amount of deliberate hand-shaking on his own, and a whole lot of signing his name as well. Occasionally dizziness often plagued patients, or loss of coordination. Jed already had a reputation for clumsiness; would they be able to tell the difference? Another less-frequent result was an obvious dragging of the feet, at least on a temporary basis. None of these had materialized yet, but that didn’t guarantee they wouldn’t later on. His right leg was definitely slower to regain its strength. He might need a cane for the rest of his life.

That would be a modest enough cost in the end, considering all the alternatives.

The early threat of blood clots had been thoroughly refuted by now. Due to his constant effort to be mobile, first in the chair and then on the crutches, Jed had never run much risk of a clot forming, either in his lungs from lying prone for long periods or in his legs from not walking for weeks. He’d utterly refused to waste time loafing, as he saw it, unless he was physically unable to rise, and he admitted to _that_ only after he tried and could not.

Abbey had to fight her own natural apprehension all along that he might be trying too much too soon. While his obstinacy to beat the most optimistic predictions of his medical staff was admirable, it caused no little fear in many people that he could actually do himself harm in the process. And yet, just maybe this fierce effort raised the odds of a full recovery in the end. People who are content to lie back and let themselves heal at their own pace often court more of those complications.

On the other hand, those people risk fewer falls. Pros and cons to everything. It’s the same as an athlete exercising: too hard and injury results; too lightly and no progress is gained.

Next, one might ponder how much psychology affects this already-complex equation. A person hell-bent on success has a far more positive outlook than a person convinced that he or she _cannot_ succeed and should be waited on as a consequence.

As a doctor, Abbey had guided many patients through exactly this kind of transition. She sternly charged herself to not make things easy for her husband, especially not because he _was_ her husband. Despite her instinct to do anything that would reduce Jed’s discomfort, she encouraged him to do as much as possible by himself; only after he failed did she step in to help. In fact she wondered if she was being harder on him than she should be, if she might be overcompensating – if she might even come across as distant, unmoved by his hard efforts, not responding to his needs. Nothing could be further from the truth. He _needed_ her to be tough; anything else would work directly against him. Besides, he repeatedly demanded as much independence as he could handle (or be permitted) and constantly strove to achieve more.

Still, despite those very demands, did he sometimes wish that she _would_ coddle him once in a while? All patients need to know that they are cared for...

He had never verbally implied such a fear, or such a wish. In fact, at times she felt like he was pushing her away. Pushing them _all_ away in his obsession to get better fast, and to do it on his own so that no one could possibly doubt that he had succeeded. She suffered from that illusion far more than his staff ever could. His harsh words to her in China after the first fall – _"Don’t touch me"_ – scored deep, even though she knew that had been the frustration and anger and depression and despair talking.

Despair: one word you almost never applied to this man. Short-lived it had been, and banished by the next day, yet it really unsettled her. He’d come so close to giving up...

Abbey appreciated in full the irony of her new position. When Jed’s strength and spirits slumped, she encouraged him to fight back, standing right there with him through it all. Of course he wouldn’t expect otherwise of her, and she never considered any other approach. And yet, when he did exactly what she said and threw himself wholeheartedly back into the fray, she wanted to rein him down before he could reach too far too fast. These days she felt every bit as dissatisfied with the status quo as he did.

She couldn’t _make_ him better, and she couldn’t bear his pain and weakness for him. So she scrounged for little touches, tiny gestures that either made things possible for him to do unaided or enabled him to temporarily forget the downside. For instance, she granted him the accomplishment and dignity of getting himself dressed in the morning, but she set his alarm ahead half an hour so that he would get up soon enough to take his time with the tiring ritual. She resurrected a few of their personal habits from before the White House years, habits that had been quietly abandoned in this luxurious setting with its own domestic staff. She searched out specific foods and scents that invoked a beloved memory of home. She resisted – most times – the almost unbearable urge to chew him out when he worked late. ("Late" had taken on a whole new definition, compared to his previous dawn-to-midnight hours; anything that strained his endurance levels qualified.)

And she arranged a visit from one of his oldest and most trusted friends. She was so glad that Father Cavanaugh had been able to join them on Sunday. Her brainstorm led to a rather short-notice invitation; retired or not, he could’ve had his own commitments. But it worked out, and it did Jed a world of good. Even his wife could minister to his emotional and spiritual needs only so much. He seemed more grounded now, less impatient with his progress, more himself.

Of like mind, Leo recently proposed a session with Dr. Stanley Keyworth. Jed had consulted him on a couple of occasions in previous years during exceptionally stressed periods, and was reasonably comfortable with the psychiatrist’s approach... but he had proved not at all open to the offer just now. Leo knew not to push, probably hoping that the idea would take root and blossom if the need really developed. Stanley had been transported secretly to the White House both times past, and so far no one outside the Family, the senior staff and the Secret Service were in the know. It _might_ be less of a PR concern now, considering that any patient undergoing such physical trauma had a perfectly valid reason to seek some kind of counseling – although Jed claimed that it would be a worse political concern in the end run. He most definitely did not want to seem even _more_ fragile right now.

Now and then Abbey asked herself whether _she_ should make an appointment with Stanley. If he came here to speak to her, Jed’s interest would likely be piqued enough to draw him out and get him involved. She even had a worthy subject to broach: her stress medication.

Jed didn’t know about that – no way he’d keep silent if he even suspected that something might be amiss with her – but Leo did. She remembered his concern for her use of the "as needed" prescription. She possessed a physician’s in-depth knowledge as to the bodily effects caused by the huge pressure she was under... and all this _before_ Jed’s relapse. She worried whether she might need the pills more and more in the future, not only because of these new crises but because people can and do build up a tolerance to regular substances. She couldn’t pretend that she didn’t understand the dangers to this course of action.

Yet what option did she have? She needed to be here for him, to deal with his health issues and her own job and the unremitting public scrutiny. A fat lot of good she’d do anyone, especially him, if she allowed her own health to break down.

Then again, perhaps another answer lay right in front of her. Jed’s eternal quest to overcome his current handicaps, his absolute conviction that he _would_ return to his former active self, could inspire just about anyone to jettison artificial means and complacency and adopt a positive outlook based on sheer will power.

If they could just get through this last year... the stress would _have_ to drop. Then they could bothheal, together.

Abbey came out of her increasingly-depressing reverie and checked the time again. It was almost two and she’d still received no call that Jed was finally up. She surveyed the papers arrayed before her, then mentally threw up her hands. Between the meetings, the briefings and the introspection, she deserved a break. Many leading health experts have advised that a person shouldn’t spend more than two hours of concentrated effort on any one task. A wander over to the Residence would stretch her legs and clear her mind... and he _might_ be just about to awaken. She could keep him company for awhile; maybe fix him a light meal. They might as well exploit his day off a bit.

Like Jed, Abbey couldn’t go anywhere or do anything without business suits shadowing her every move. Still, she wasn’t surrounded by quite so many, thereby allowing her the semblance of greater freedom. She knew every member of her detail by name – a trick that Jed never could master, but then he had way more to remember – and often she treated herself to some harmless small talk in a setting as secure as this. Not today, though; frivolities didn’t suit her current mood. She ignored the woman who fell into step beside her and the man who trailed in her wake as they headed towards the White House proper.

Still, even that melancholy mood wasn’t completely immune to the splendor and history of the halls through which they passed. She’d heard each of her staff members remark at some point that every now and then they were suddenly broadsided all over again by the amazing fact that they had the enormous privilege of working at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. The Museum of the Nation, the House of the People, the hub of the federal government, the most famous address in North America. Yes, that was impressive in itself... but it didn’t compare to actually living here. The Bartlets got to call this treasured and staggeringly luxurious building _home_. They got to move in their personal possessions and lay (temporary) claim to antique masterpieces. They even got to leave their own individual mark, contribute to the irreplaceable collections in their own fashion, become a permanent part of the chronicles and the beauty.

They also had to deal with the constant attention of politicians, press and public. They had to accept the intrusion of the media and the tourists. They were surrounded by the best this nation had to offer – except privacy. They were revered, put on display, closely watched at all times lest they do or say something either fascinating or damaging. They were isolated in a way that few people could truly imagine. They had to surrender more of themselves than decency would dare to ask, and they’d never get all of it back.

Public service carries a price tag in equal proportion to influence. The influence of the White House and the First Family was almost limitless. Therefore...

Most days, Abbey accepted this cost philosophically. The pleasure of being able to help so many people, to leave a lasting and positive impression on public organizations and on private lives, to represent her country with honor, could outweigh almost anything.

On other occasions, she believed that _nothing_ was worth the punishment extracted from her family. When the bullets started to fly, or when daughters went missing, or when husbands were suddenly unable to stand... how could even a nation expect them to continue?

Today she teetered perfectly between those two extremes. The burden of carrying the Presidency had literally flattened Jed to the floor – but the passion of fulfilling the Presidency had fired him to drag himself back onto his feet. If they weren’t here, this relapse most likely would never have hit... yet if it had in another setting, would he have found the same will to fight it off and go on?

Abbey feared that Jed would drive himself into the ground for his job, as she had feared constantly and increasingly ever since his fainting spell back on the first anniversary of his first inauguration. In fact, he’d come horrendously close to doing just that already. At this rate, would he even survive the White House? And how much would be left of him by the end of this final year if he did? She was feeling inordinately selfish right now...

And yet, Jed’s determination to recover had fueled his progress during these weeks, just as his determination to serve as President to the very best of his abilities had fueled his administration from the start, infusing a similar unity of purpose throughout the staff and propelling them all towards accomplishments none would have envisioned in advance. What would happen when that fuel finally expired in twelve months’ time? Would he sit back at last and allow himself to _really_ heal? Would he be content to rest on his well-deserved laurels and leave the work to the next generation, as was fitting and proper? Or would the loss of direction and a definite goal to aim for deprive him at last of his life-long belief that the battle was worth it? Would he lose that precious flame that he had always possessed and utilized to strive for the best, in others and in himself? Would he deteriorate in a way beyond even the ravages of the MS itself? Would he lose the desire to keep fighting – for _anything?_

Abbey wanted Jed alive, and well, and strong – and hers. She was so tired of sharing him with the country and the world. Was that really asking too much, after everything he’d _already_ given to the country and the world? And what would she receive in turn? The delight of seeing him regain his health and never have unmitigated stress threaten that health again? An abbreviated retirement before his body completely crashed from the permanent damage inflicted by the White House strain? A lapse into bitterness at all he failed to do, and now never could... or even apathy, since nothing he tried to do in the future would matter as much?

Sometimes Abbey worried that she was expecting the impossible: Jed as he was when she married him, and as they had grown together, before the Presidency and the urgency and the stress. Before the MS. She prayed that leaving this place would not change him, would not injure the heart she loved every bit as much as her own. She wanted him to find peace... but not at the expense of his soul.

Abbey didn’t want to become a caretaker, or a caregiver, for the rest of _her_ retirement... but she would if that was the only way to keep Jed with her. She would bear the heartrending collapse of his vitality and give him whatever nursing he might need. He didn’t require an athlete’s body to continue as the other half of her being. At the same time, she would drill into his thick skull that he’d done his share and _more_ than his share, and he had fully earned the right to relax and reap the rewards. This White House obsession could and _would_ be broken. She asked only that they had more time to live, and to love. Surely he would feel the same.

Whichever eventually happened, she knew only one thing for certain: they wouldn’t have enough years together if they both lived any less than forever.

This small procession headed upstairs towards the Residence. For no apparent reason, Abbey found herself recalling moments from last week, in Jed’s first walking days, when she had taken him on brief tours of the second floor, two or three times daily. The only way he could build strength and experience on crutches was by actually doing it. The first stages had been short and definitely not sweet. Somehow she had choked back her heart’s wail at his effort, his awkwardness, his hard breathing, his weariness and his pain, pressing him to reclaim part of himself, progressing a bit further each day. She wished with all her might that she could fast-forward past this necessary interim period and take them both to the future where he would walk tall and strong once more.

Yet again, Leo had demonstrated the depths of his loyalty and his sensitivity towards this man they both cared for so deeply. When he learned about the practice sessions, he at once offered to assume this duty for the weekend, sparing her the empathic pain and hiding his own under a barrage of reminisces and jokes. Jed welcomed the offer; no pain of his could blind him to his wife’s own anguish. Also, neither Bartlet missed the parallel to Leo’s own slow recovery process after his heart attack.

In almost forty years of marriage, Abbey had never before seen her husband in real, prolonged pain. Emotional distress, sure. Spiritual conflict as well. Physical agony, no. Even after the Newseum, he had not felt all that much pain at first, and later it had been kept under control by medication. The MS attacked nerve endings by deadening them, not torturing them. But now he had to endure the necessary pain of physiotherapy, the stabbing pain in both legs as he forced them to work again, and the burning pain in arms and shoulders as he carried the large percentage of his weight that his legs just couldn’t. Like the fatigue, this pain didn’t simply go away whenever he sat or lay down. This pain pursued him like a rabid hound.

This pain had become _her_ pain.

Jed and Abbey had discussed many times how responsible they were for the nation’s future as well as its present. They could not and _must_ not bow to the threat of terrorism, not even at the risk of their lives... not even to the extremity of the abduction of family members. Of course, theory is often miles removed from practice, hence Jed’s stepping down to Walken for fear that he might give in after all to buy Zoey back. Abbey had understood this in principle, and supported it intellectually, but when the ultimate disaster struck her heart shrieked that no price would be too high to pay and her mind fogged right over with terror, sedation and hatred – hatred both for the kidnappers who were directly to blame and for the father who was _in_ directly to blame. She and Jed had since mended that nearly-fatal blow to their marriage, after many months, after Zoey’s complete recovery, and after both husband and wife acknowledged the other’s intense suffering through the worst trial of their lives.

How did that dutiful and necessary principle differ from Jed not giving in to the demands of his own health?

This was his last year in office, his last chance to do anything as President, his last opportunity to channel the incredible influence with which he had been entrusted to help others before he yielded up that influence forever. He would be pushing himself even harder as a result, above and beyond the desire to recover and prove he was still well enough to do his job.

Which spelled out the single most critical aspect of Abbey’s job: to help him get through it. She too wanted to accomplish as much as possible while she still could, since her influence would plummet as well once they moved out of here... but that natural desire paled before the need to back up her overly-dedicated spouse so that they left on January 20 of next year and not one day sooner.

If Jed wasn’t so overly-dedicated, so hard-working, so desperate to serve the nation, so frantic to make life better for others, she wouldn’t love him anywhere near as much. He had to be one of the most selfless people she’d ever met. The talents went with the identity, and the Presidency was the best forum in which to exercise them. They’d lasted through these seven hard years, and they’d done a great deal both individually and together. They had one more year; relapse or no relapse, they would persevere. The past had been worthwhile, and the future offered more to come. For both of them.

As she approached the executive bedroom, Abbey decided that her bracing thoughts had reduced her depression but not eliminated it. She really wanted some kind of pick-me-up. Certainly Jed could use one. He was probably no less frustrated than she was at the general state of things.

She felt a slight smile curve her lips as mental images came together. What if she suggested that they take a dip in the hot tub? His convalescence and recurring fatigue had placed an embargo on all other forms of recreation, but he should be well-rested today after such a long sleep. Surely he deserved a reward after all his hard labor for America and for himself...

"Hello, Coop." Abbey had always been far better than Jed at names, and she knew most of his detail simply because she was around them quite a bit herself. This provided one area where she delighted to lord it over her husband, where he had no possible defense.

The tall agent standing outside the door inclined his head politely, although he did not smile. Bodyguards almost never did. "Mrs. Bartlet."

"Any activity within?"

"No, ma’am; no sign so –"

Anyone who is surrounded by the Secret Service long enough will instantly recognize – and dread – the patented "earphone alarm." It is unmistakable, and it is used only when crisis codes are blared over the security channel. Coop suddenly jerked to full attention and his left hand flew to his left ear, pressing the tiny receiver more firmly in place to ensure that not a syllable would be missed. Abbey reacted from previous training as well: every nerve in her body contracted, ready for awful news and fast action.

Coop’s next words emerged one splintered moment later, as a shout: _"Pisces Alert!"_

It _was_ awful news. The panic button on the President’s medical bracelet had been activated.

In a span of time so infinitesimal that it could scarcely be measured, Abbey remembered that "Libra" was the code should the pulse monitor built into that bracelet detect an imbalance in Jed’s physical status – such as during his tirade in the Situation Room last weekend. "Pisces" meant that he knew he was in over his head and had called for help. At least that meant he was also conscious – or had been at the moment of transmission –

Coop was already charging through the bedroom door. The First Lady followed hot on his heels. Not even the Secret Service could keep her away.

Neither her agents nor the others instantly converging from the corridor tried.

The bed was in total disarray – and empty.

_Where was he?_

_"JED!"_

"Right here."

She knew that voice, even low and roughened by sleep. She recognized that mop of disheveled hair, just visible over the far edge of the bed.

She tore around the footboard, unable to cover those few yards fast enough – and stopped short at the sight before her.

The notorious Bartlet humor never abused security protocol. Everyone was terrified that they’d find him with a broken limb, a bleeding skull or a breathing problem. No one expected to find him seated upright on the floor, as calm as anything and to all appearances uninjured.

He was in his blue pajamas, leaning comfortably against the bed, his bare feet extended. The bedside lamp had been switched on, the crutches rested against the end-table, and the wheelchair stood nearby. The blankets and sheets had been pulled more than halfway off the mattress and wadded behind his spine for cushioning. He had a report on his lap and eyeglasses on his nose, acting as though nothing at all could be wrong.

His relaxed attitude contrasted starkly with their urgency and fear.

He didn’t even glance up at first. "Finally. I’m glad I had something to read until everyone found the time to wander by." He made it sound like the interval between alarm and response had been hours instead of seconds.

Five Secret Service agents and one First Lady stood there in a frozen semi-circle and just stared down at him.

Now the President raised his head and removed his spectacles. "You okay, Abbey?" He sounded more serious now. It didn’t take genius to deduce that the only way she could’ve arrived so immediately was if she’d been right outside at the moment of the alarm, and thus present for the worst adrenaline spike.

She couldn’t stop herself from gaping at him. "Am _I_ all right?"

He shrugged. "I knew you’d be worried. I haven’t fallen out of bed in decades."

This simple announcement was greeted by a ringing silence.

Abbey guessed that her growing suspicion kept the color out of her face. If it was a simple case of drowsily rolling too far to one side, he would have risen and told no one, bruises notwithstanding. There could be only one explanation for him remaining on the carpet, for allowing himself to be found in such a state... and for the first-ever activation of the executive panic button.

"Your legs?"

Her husband attempted a nonchalance that didn’t fool her for one moment. "Are still asleep."

He couldn’t walk.

He couldn’t even stand.

She fell to her knees beside him as though her own legs had given out, her heart rate not slowing at all. Some distant part of her brain noted the discreet mutter in the background as a bodyguard radioed out that the situation appeared to be under control. From her point of view, and Jed’s as well, things weren’t under control by any stretch of the imagination. What had happened to undo all the wonderful progress he’d made in over three hard, painful weeks?

_Relapse..._

Her only hope of pushing through that terror, of functioning effectively, of being any use to him at all, was to engage full doctor mode and cling to it uncompromisingly. She reached first for his shoulders, as though without her stabilizing influence he might tip right over in the next heartbeat. "Did you hit anything?"

"No." Jed met her eyes squarely. He didn’t flinch in any sign of discomfort as she ran quick, skilled hands behind his head and down both arms. The apprehension radiated from him, though. "I just... tried to stand."

And failed.

He looked down at the limbs that had been steadily improving of late, the limbs that just yesterday had been holding him up longer and obeying his commands more readily – the limbs that today had betrayed him without warning. His flat statement, his subdued tone, his creased sleepwear, his unruly hair, his unshaven jaw, the blankets crumpled around him, and above all the lack of anger or even irritation in his gaze joined forces to crush his image into a pale caricature of who he had so recently been. All at once he looked unbearably vulnerable, as though the most heartless villain in the blackest movie plot had sadistically kicked his feet out from under him just for the twisted pleasure of watching him suffer.

Abbey tore herself from this view before she broke down completely and sternly commanded herself to stick to the medical approach. Reassured that no apparent damage had been done elsewhere, she started probing his leg muscles, gently testing for any hint of... life.

"Circulation appears normal." She detected normal body warmth through the flannel material, even all the way down to his feet. Any inflammation resulting from a crash-landing couldn’t have developed yet, and if his nerves had shut down again... "Can you feel this?"

"Actually, yes."

Her heart leaped, an almost physical reaction that yanked her head up in concert, to stare at him with an expression that trembled on the verge of new hope. He looked as surprised and as tentatively optimistic as she felt.

This wasn’t the horrid deadness experienced in China. If normal or near-normal sensation remained, then true paralysis hadn’t returned.

Not a genuine relapse after all; just sudden muscular weakness. Uncommon, but neither medically impossible nor dire. By all rights, it should be temporary.

Then, as she could have predicted, his irrepressible nature reasserted itself. One eyebrow rose to a suggestive angle. "But since when have I ever failed to respond to your touch?"

Her features shifted in a familiar – and welcome – flood of exasperation. "You’re going to pay for that crack after you’re fully healed."

"Can’t wait."

Abbey put _that_ response out of her mind and mentally played the nickelodeon short reel. Jed had awakened, finally ready to rise for what remained of the day... and discovered that he couldn’t move his legs at all. They weren’t "asleep" as in deprived of all blood flow, or paralyzed with regard to nerve shutdown, but quite simply strengthless. Typically, he tried to stand anyway, no doubt hoping that some exercise might help, and wound up on his duff instead. In this state, the wheelchair was beyond his reach and the crutches would have been useless; he couldn’t even climb back into bed. She wondered how many unsuccessful attempts had been required before he at last surrendered the hope of resolving this without assistance and resigned himself to calling for help.

Which reminded her... "Why use the panic button? I nearly had heart failure! You could’ve just called out –"

"I did."

The surprise factor soared in this room.

He coughed, a raspy sound. "No one heard. Guess I’m still rusty so early in the morning. Couldn’t get up to full bellow."

It was afternoon, not morning, although it might as well have been morning from his perspective. Still, everyone got the point. He had tried to draw attention to himself vocally, and even his fiercely dedicated and proximate watchdogs heard nothing.

Abbey refrained from glancing around. She couldn’t blame the agents for failing to hear a sleep-muffled voice across a substantial room and through a sturdy wooden door, and they shouldn’t even imagine any condemnation on her part. From her husband’s equal lack of accusation, he agreed. She heard a few feet shuffle behind her, though. If not for that portable alarm, how long might the President’s helplessness have gone unnoticed? This afternoon drop-in had not been planned.

Enough relief coursed through her – at Jed’s apparent well-being, at his fairly positive outlook, and at the circumstantial evidence against a severe relapse after all – that she was willing to indulge in a bit of humor herself.

"No one likes being yelled at." That should assure certain individuals that even the ultra-protective First Lady harbored no grudge against what could be construed as a security flaw. "I am _not_ going to have that door replaced with a curtain." It almost was already, considering how often their defenders or their staff had to barge in on them at all hours. Privacy had become a foreign concept around here.

"Besides, now we all know for sure that the electronics work." Abbey slipped one hand around the back of her husband’s neck in a token effort to hide the fact that this supposed professional touch was actually a caress. "Of course, trust you to get some entertainment out of it at the same time."

He flashed her the old roguish grin, seeing through that disguise at once. "Concurred on all counts."

Probably another reason he finally did initiate the alert, rather than wait until someone happened to check in on him, was the realization that they’d never leave him alone again if he’d been too stubborn to admit his dependency. And if he’d "neglected" to wear his bracelet in the first place, he’d have _really_ been killed when she finally did find him.

She kindly chose not to mention either point. Suffice to say that the silver safeguard got to demonstrate its worth.

At least he’d thought to compose himself before hitting the button, knowing there would be a frantic stampede to his bedside, and did all he could to downplay the inevitable anxiety. This approach suited his personality better anyway.

Abbey’s rueful amusement died as she pondered his reaction to her next proposal. "Let’s get you downstairs for a full looking-over." The most obvious culprit to this manifestation was his hard push to get through yesterday. A few simple tests should confirm that in short order... as well as unearth any other causes or complications.

"Mother in Heaven, spare me." It did sound like a prayer. "I’ve been to that subterranean medical theatre so many times of late, I could find my way there blindfolded!"

"I’d pay money to see you try, if the point wasn’t to _prevent_ you from bouncing off the furniture," she returned in a more acerbic tone. "Fine; we’ll bring Souris up here instead."

Jed wore a sour look, yet wisely acquiesced. "The politics of compromise."

"That’s a guy." She rose and turned to their witnesses. "Thank you very much, people. Coop, could you stay for another minute?"

The selected bodyguard nodded readily. "Of course, ma’am." His colleagues evacuated, returning to their posts outside.

"Good. Your help will be invaluable. Stay put, Jed; I’ll get your bathrobe."

A resigned exhalation. "Like I have any choice about where I’m put..."

Abbey was inside the walk-in closet for less than ten seconds, and within earshot the whole time. As a result, when Jed started to speak again, she heard everything.

"Coop, I’d like to ask a favor."

"Yes, sir?"

"Don’t mention this little mishap to the First Lady, okay?"

One foot back into the bedroom proper, Abbey froze.

The bodyguard worked hard to cover an identical confusion. He could see her over his protectee’s head, listening to them both. "Mr. President?"

Jed had to know as well that his wife was right there, but he gave no sign at all. "I’ve fallen before in the past, as you know, and each time it really upsets her. I don’t want her to worry even more about me."

Abbey hugged the navy-blue housecoat to her heart, feeling a real smile for what had to be the first time today. This man and his jokes – but even his jokes sometimes carried a deeper meaning. He truly regretted the scare he’d caused her today. It wasn’t his fault that his legs had gone again, yet he still felt a desire to apologize. Also, she picked up on a wry acknowledgement that he was scared himself. He wanted to cut through the tension and the fear clutching at them both; he _wanted_ her to overhear him; he was speaking to her in a very oblique method that didn’t mask his fondness. On the contrary, this method emphasized it.

She had to resist the urge to say, "Aww." Or just kiss him.

She adhered to her role instead and strolled over as though she hadn’t heard a word. Any other approach would cheapen the moment. "Okay, honey, let’s get you off the floor."

He too avoided saying anything obvious, although his grin told her that he’d noticed the brightness in her eyes. "I move that we form a sit-down committee for thicker carpet."

"Whatever amuses you." She nodded to Coop, who couldn’t prevent a twitch at one corner of his mouth that in most people would be a broad smile. Crouching low, the agent directed his protectee to grasp him firmly around the neck, then used his leg strength to lift straight up – it was the most stable method, especially since Jed couldn’t assist at all – and got him seated on the bed. Thankfully, his balance had not been affected, which lent credence to the theory that this setback would indeed be short-lived. Then Abbey helped him shrug into the thick bathrobe. "We don’t want you to pick up a chill on top of everything else, do we?"

"I don’t get chills," her husband pouted automatically.

"I’ve got a medical chart that would take issue with you on that, babe."

"It was one time!"

"One time too many. And if you dare say ‘mother hen,’ you’ll be eating nothing but salad for the next twelve months."

Jed turned to their silent observer. "Do you hear that? I’m being threatened with nutritional bodily harm by my own wife!"

Coop knew better than to get roped into conversations like this. "Sir, General Souris is on his way."

Humor took a pronounced downturn. "Speaking of people who endanger my welfare..."

"Please let us know when he arrives. Thank you, Coop." Abbey smiled and nodded at him, a gentle dismissal. The agent nodded back and made his exit.

The First Couple had a few minutes alone before the medical lingo started up again. She cast about for a moment, but the closest seat was the wheelchair, so she pulled it over and settled herself comfortably close to her husband. She had no intention of going anywhere, and not just because she wanted to hear the official physician’s diagnosis.

This weakness was in all likelihood a slight and transitory downgrade on Jed’s overall upward climb. Still, they’d both feel a lot better to have that positively established.

However, it also scuttled any chance of _recreational_ activity within the foreseeable future. Abbey took a moment to quash her disappointment. Jed didn’t need to hear yet about the extension to his embargo; he must be depressed already. They’d simply have to wait until he had the strength to spare.

He cocked his head at her, that loveable mischief rising yet again. "I’m reminded anew of the broken ankle thing."

They’d both had reason to recall that memory during recent weeks. She sighed. "Now there was an occasion to bless the Secret Service." The two agents with her on that ill-fated Manchester hike had claimed the unique distinction of carrying her home.

The majority of people had forgotten her brief incapacitation over four years ago; leastwise, no public voice had drawn the parallel. Even so, it gifted her with genuine empathy for her husband about the chair’s restrictions. She’d had to face most of the same mobility challenges... although having one sound leg and normal balance made a huge difference in her degree of independence back then.

Jed wasn’t finished. "You should’ve held onto your own chair after all. Then we could race each other down the corridor!"

The mental image of the First Couple drag-racing through the White House, scattering staff members and security forces in all directions, was preposterous enough to almost make Abbey laugh outright.

"I’m sure we could scrounge up another." A couple of standard chairs always remained on site, just in case an employee or a tourist should experience sudden physical debilitation. In fact, she of all people should be entitled to use the alternate executive chair with the Seal on the back; certainly no one would presume to forbid her. "But you’d have an unfair advantage after all your recent practice."

"You can use the light one," he offered graciously. "That should even the odds a bit."

"Such a gentleman."

Her lightness of tone was a mask. She could hear the brittle edge to his humor. He hated the idea of going back to the chair after he’d been doing so well without it.

As jovial and relaxed as he tried to appear, he couldn’t possibly be less worried about this mini-relapse than she was. Almost certainly it had been brought on by overwork, but still... this was the first such setback to hit. Would it be the last? No one knew.

Abbey had to fight the ever-growing desire to overreact and protect Jed from _any_ kind of mishap like this. Next time, the specter of fear whispered in her brain, might be far more serious than sliding from the bed to the floor. But he needed to keep trying to do things himself. He had to work for his freedom.

Despair had dug its merciless teeth into him after his failure to oversee the China summit, compounded by his fall in the hotel in Beijing. He had rallied nonetheless and pulled off a political miracle with the Chinese president. Despair set in again when he collapsed on the plane at the summit’s end, but he had been steadfastly clawing his way back from that ever since.

Now this.

Sometimes, in the really low moments, like almost any other people, both of them wanted to just throw in the towel. Quit the fight. Take the easy road.

If either of them had been the type to yield to the easy road... then she would never have married him, and he would never have entered politics in the first place. In short, neither of them would be here. And that would be a tragedy on so many levels.

But it would have avoided _this_ tragedy.

Jed was ferociously dedicated to walking out of this White House. Sitting here with him, pretending to joke with him, Abbey started to seriously wonder just how realistic that goal was. And what would happen to his wonderful spirit if he just couldn’t...


	24. Sitting President, The 24

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 24:** _JESSE WEISKOFT_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

The king-size 747, recognized the world over, envied the world over, unmatched the world over, waited on the runway of Andrews Air Force Base, a queen surrounded by fawning minions. She always remained out in the open on her closed-off runway, surrounded by security, as though she were basking in her undisputed majesty. Her unique livery, commissioned by JFK himself, gleamed in the bright mid-morning sunshine: silver-gray, sky-blue, snow-white – every inch of it polished by hand. Her ultra-advanced, top-secret technological advancements were invisible, not intended to reveal themselves unless there was no alternative. Her prize crew had reported to their assigned spots, whether in the interior compartments or out on the tarmac. They’d heard the announcement over all channels not long ago that the motorcade had left the White House. Everyone waited for the arrival of their premier passenger.

Today would be the first time this magnificent aircraft had flown since the return from China just over three weeks ago.

The Flight Captain, wearing the bars of a full colonel, 89th Airlift Wing, U.S.A.F., sat in the cockpit with his two-member flight crew, surveying the countless readouts and lights and switches, testing the flaps, the oil and fuel pressures, the hydraulics and gear, running through the final preparations for take-off. No pilot ever lets anyone else do the pre-flight check list for them, no matter how well they know the other. Besides, considering whom they would shortly receive into their exclusive care, and for whose safe transport they would be solely responsible, no precaution was too extreme.

Now and then one of this trio glanced out their port window – those windows that (to anyone but a pilot) seemed hideously small for piloting so enormous a conveyance. Sooner or later they’d spot a telltale movement at the distant base entrance. Considering the four-story height of the plane’s nose from the ground, they had one of the best views around.

If they looked elsewhere, they would see observers aiming binoculars in all directions, snipers crouched on the hanger roof, security operatives prowling the runway on foot against obstacles, dog teams investigating the perimeter and the woods beyond, and emergency vehicles of every type parked not so far away.

All of this wasn’t due to Andrews’ status as the tightest military base in the country. These were normal precautions, standard operating procedures... due to a perpetual shadow they dared not ignore. _No one_ took any chances around the President.

The Colonel told himself not to fidget. If anything came up to delay, postpone or endanger the flight, they would be notified. His nerves, he knew, did not come from the United States Air Force’s well-earned reputation for adhering to schedule and precision and safety, but rather from the memory of the last time Jed Bartlet flew.

He had no reason in the world to harbor guilt. Nobody could blame a medical problem on him or his people. "Angel" was designed to maintain optimum interior efficiency and comfort at all times. And yet... every crew member who had been on that trip remembered the medical calamity that happening on their plane. They respected their leader, treated him with the deference he fully deserved, devoted their skills and their lives to delivering him to his destination and then home again in the most efficient manner possible. If something happened to this aircraft, they would be caught up in it just like he was, and they all accepted that risk.

One and all, they felt – however irrationally – that they had failed in their job. Nothing had happened to them... only to him.

This, the Colonel reminded himself yet again, was not that trip. This trip had nothing to do with politics. It was a Saturday, unusual in itself, and broad daylight, a true rarity for _this_ President. In a little more than six hours, a funeral would be held in Los Angeles on the other side of the continent, and The Man had insisted on attending. Not his staff, not his doctors, not even his wife could talk him out of it.

The co-pilot happened to be looking out at the right moment. "Here he comes."

The flash of police strobe-lights could be seen clearly even on such a bright day. Squad cars and motorcycles paved the way for the sleek black limousines. Limousines which, like this plane, were far more than they appeared.

The most efficient transport from the White House to Andrews was the black armored helicopter known as _Marine One._ It could cross those twelve miles with far less time and effort than running a thirty-car parade through D.C. and Maryland. However, from some unstated reason this President always preferred to drive over. Besides, that specially-commissioned chopper’s limited floor space had not been laid out with a wheelchair in mind.

It was time the Colonel assumed his own post. As he left his seat, he nodded for his second to proceed. The co-pilot obediently switched on the intercom.

"All hands: the Eagle has landed."

The crew stationed inside knew to keep away from the portholes. Usually there would be press on hand, taking pictures of the plane as well as the Chief Executive, and no one wanted a photo published with an unknown face plastered to a window, gawking like any other tourist. Today, due to certain special procedures adopted to accommodate the medical needs of a certain special traveler, the only media representatives around had already boarded through the door in the tail section, and their blinds had been ordered down prior to departure.

A second, even more compelling reason was to keep the perimeter clear for the Secret Service.

The Colonel stopped just back of the plane’s main portal, staying out of sight himself; he knew that his short, perfectly silver hair almost glowed in the dark at times. With a little craning, though, he could surreptitiously observe the events below.

He could hear snatches of orders, even from this distance. For outside boarding – except in an emergency – all turbines remained on standby only. Idling would have made it impossible for anyone on the tarmac to be heard without yelling, something the bodyguards with their radios would have not liked at all, and was a huge waste of fuel as well.

The pair of ebony limos pulled up conveniently near the aircraft, right between the double ranks of Secret Service agents. Several smaller vehicles of administrative and security personnel preceded or followed in a long yet very straight line; motorcade chauffeurs had tailgating down to an art. Two of those ubiquitous black business suits approached the first limo the moment it stopped moving, and in unison opened both rear doors.

The first person to emerge was the petite First Lady, stepping out from the far side of that streamlined tank, the picture of haute style. To someone at ground level, her head would have barely cleared the car roof. The Colonel benefited from his substantial elevation.

The second person was the burly personal aide to the President, from the near side. Every member of the flight crew knew him. Every member was sworn never to discuss the details to anyone, but none of them would _ever_ forget the arrival in Beijing, when this muscular young man had walked through the plane and down the steps cradling the world’s most politically powerful individual in his arms.

This time he carried a pair of steel forearm crutches in one hand.

The Colonel frowned. Was the wheelchair not going to be used after all? Even in public?

By now the First Lady had walked around the rear of the limo and approached the near door. A pause fell...

A pair of black-clad legs slowly emerged, and a pair of black shoes planted themselves on the tarmac. One hand extended from the dark interior and grasped the vehicle frame. A second hand secured a grip on the open door, which the attending bodyguard held steady.

The Colonel clenched his fists. Surely not –

Yes, there he was. Levering himself out unaided. Braced between his two supports, standing on his own feet. He wore a long navy-blue overcoat in deference to the sharp teeth of the January wind, but of course neither hat nor gloves.

He looked so – himself.

And then the body man advanced to present the crutches. The President received them with a nod, took one in each hand, positioned them at his sides... and started to walk.

The Colonel exhaled. Admirable.

After the chair, this was wonderful. The Man didn’t move as quickly as he used to, of course, but at a respectable rate nonetheless, straight and stable and under his own propulsion. He didn’t wobble much at all. Clearly his leg coordination was nearly back to normal; it had become a matter of how much weight they could bear and for how long. From the looks of things, he felt reasonably at ease with these physical aides.

Climbing a long set of steps, though, was unthinkable. Where the usual staircase on wheels would have been positioned, the custom-made hydraulic lift awaited instead. A uniformed officer stood at attention on either side, exactly as it would have been had nothing changed.

"Eagle" always acknowledged salutes. Even when he was in a hurry and striding briskly past, he never tossed off a casual wave, but kept the motion crisp and proper. Today he had to stop, transfer his right crutch to a couple of free fingers on his left hand, and only then return the military tribute. If he noticed the awe the young crewmen couldn’t quite mask, he gave no sign. He just eased his right arm back into its crutch and started forward again.

The Bartlets stepped onto the lift, which resembled an elevator that had been chopped horizontally in half. Since he would be using a piece of equipment exactly like this at the other end of the journey as well, they didn’t want the contraption to look too ugly, and they couldn’t obscure him from public view. The Secret Service hated it. The Man was just as much of a target while mounting the steps, but at least a fixed staircase was less likely to suffer a malfunction and drop him three stories. It had been checked and tested and checked again, and even then they gave their permission reluctantly. The attending airmen raised the ramp, which doubled as a safety gate and provided _some_ defense against any loss of balance. Then the hydraulics hummed and the First Couple made the smooth ascent together.

This wasn’t the first time, or even the second, that a President had needed mechanical assistance to board his personal aircraft. Franklin Roosevelt’s plane, the _Sacred Cow_ , had a small elevator installed in the tail section to accommodate him, wheelchair and all. And John Kennedy, plagued by chronic back pain for the last eight years of his life, used an earlier version of today’s lift throughout his abbreviated term – at Andrews only, so that the public never knew.

From his discreet stance the Colonel overheard a cheerful comment by the current Commander-in-Chief to his wife. "I’ve always wanted a ride in a cherry-picker. We should hang some Christmas lights on this bird. _That’d_ be a sight!"

Sometimes a persistent sense of humor can be annoying. These days, the least sign of an executive good mood was cause for celebration.

The lift settled right against the portal and another crewman lowered the gate/ramp to bridge the tiny gap left. The occupants waved their final farewells to their people below and stepped inside. Then it was the Flight Captain’s turn to formally present himself.

"Welcome aboard, Mr. President."

Even with his average height, he was the taller. His full dress uniform made his leader’s business attire look decidedly plain by comparison. But physical appearance meant nothing against political power... or sheer personality.

"Colonel Weiskoft." Again Bartlet stopped, cautiously transferred the right crutch and mirrored the salute. Then he immediately offered a handshake. "Good to see you again, Jesse. I’ve felt positively earthbound of late."

"I can imagine, sir. Mrs. Bartlet." Weiskoft extended his hand next to the First Lady, giving her a gallant bow at the same time.

She smiled winningly, as always. "Colonel."

Any concern she felt about her husband flying at this stage of his recuperation, she hid well. But she had to feel it; her presence was a dead giveaway. Due most often to scheduling conflicts, they rarely shared a trip anywhere. Clearly this time she’d _made_ time.

The First Couple moved past him and proceeded into the depths of the luxury aircraft. In the back of his mind, Weiskoft imagined the proud message his co-pilot would have just transmitted to the tower: "The President is aboard, and we are _Air Force One!_ "

The lift was being rolled away, but no stairs replaced it. Except for a few very close advisors, the tide of accompanying staff members and security operatives, like the press, usually boarded through the rear fuselage so as not to clutter the official view. The Colonel left the sealing of the forward hatch to the lingering crewman and followed after his leader.

Their footfalls were silenced by the rich carpet. The metallic clack-clack of the crutches, though, refused to be muffled.

Bartlet negotiated the corridors carefully. Weiskoft had never noticed before how many tiny protrusions and sharp edges existed everywhere, in _any_ plane, just lying in wait for a clumsy movement. His own doubts as to this flight being a good idea were increasing.

When "Eagle" stopped in mid-hall, everyone else stopped as well. This plane was wider even than a normal 747, and its interior spaces had been further designed to allow rapid passing in a bad situation, but no one wanted to crowd their President at any time.

He turned, laboriously, and faced his Flight Captain. For a moment the crutches were forgotten; he stood proudly. "Colonel, I’m ready to go."

Weiskoft had received that order many times before, delivered in the same firm tone. The word was given; The Man expected the engines to be fired up at once. He loved that touch, and had been heard to boast before that it was the best part about having his job.

The Colonel had foreseen this, and prepared his response accordingly. "Excellent, sir. If you’ll just take a seat, please, we’ll get on our way."

The sudden consternation on Bartlet’s face was almost comical. "Is there a problem?"

"No, sir." Only military forthrightness would do. "However, I’d like you seated and belted in before we move. This is the safest aircraft in the world... but sudden vibration is still possible, even on the ground."

A visible cloud of annoyance settled around the presidential brow, both at being denied his joy and at being the subject of so much fussing. Even he was constrained to strap down for departures and arrivals, but they had a few minutes of freedom yet.

He looked from the ranking officer to his wife. Neither showed any sign of giving in to him on this. Minor movement underfoot that most people would lean into without conscious effort could easily upset his delicate balancing act on those steel pins.

It was a major concession that certain people allowed him to travel today in the first place; he had to accept their terms. He did so with a growl and a stiff jerk as he rotated in place and headed down the aisle again.

"Like I haven’t had enough of a fight already just to get permission to go," he groused between measured steps. "I’m _not_ an invalid, and the last time I checked I didn’t have a heart condition. Does everyone think the safest aircraft in the world still isn’t good enough for me? How can the country believe that I’m on the job if I hide in the White House all the time? Or do you think _Air Force One_ is cursed?"

Irritation seemed to find some welcome expression in enumerating these facts to a new audience. Considering the "victory" Weiskoft had achieved in persuading his President to take no chances on a moving vehicle, he figured that he owed The Man a sympathetic ear in exchange.

Bartlet stumped up to his office door with its frosted glass and its beautiful etching of the Great Seal, which the First Lady silently opened for him. He didn’t stop grousing; one would think that _he_ thought he still had to convince them to let him fly at all. "And just in case that’s not enough for you, just in case the funeral of an old friend isn’t sufficient excuse in itself, this old friend of mine had been afflicted with Parkinson’s for the last ten years, and he was in unremitting pain for the last four. He _truly_ suffered, and I will not use my _transitory_ inconvenience as an excuse not to bid him a final farewell. If I can go to work, I can pay tribute to a life."

"Eagle" allowed his wife to help him out of his overcoat, one arm at a time while the other propped him up. He was getting pretty good with the crutch juggle. Then he edged around the corner of his desk, positioned himself over his large leather chair, and gratefully dropped into it. She removed her own coat, woolen and peach-colored, glided to another armchair and settled herself far more gracefully. The body man appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, hung the garments inside the office closet and secured the crutches with a pair of clamps recently added to the wall behind the desk, where they would be at hand yet couldn’t rattle or tumble around.

"Sir?" the Colonel prodded as gently as he could. His Commander-in-Chief glared back, still smarting at the earlier refusal to ignite all thrusters because he said to, then rolled his eyes and grudgingly reached for his seat belt.

The moment it clicked, Weiskoft gave a brisk nod. "Thank you, sir. If you’d like to call the cockpit now, Lieutenant-Colonel Caplan is waiting for your word."

He spotted the First Lady’s indulgent smile at the pleasure that crossed her husband’s face now, and the eagerness with which he reached for his desk phone. Let him enjoy the somewhat juvenile yet understandable delight of having the engines to this aviation masterpiece roar on his command. He’d been given precious few personal concessions over the last while.

"Colonel Caplan." He properly abbreviated the pilot’s rank by granting him the higher title. "This is the President." Then he threw a glance at both his Flight Captain and his wife, and allowed a slight grin of acknowledgement. "We’re ready to leave."

Compromise, with dignity.

He hung up, and they shared a one-second pause of relative quiet – quiet tempered by anticipation. It felt as if this enormous plane was gathering herself together in preparation for a spring straight up. Then they all heard the rising, booming thunder right outside as massive turbines engaged, flexing their muscles, preparing to exert their full strength, which no force on earth could hold back.

Bartlet reclined in his chair with a satisfied grin. Clearly this had made his day. The First Lady just shook her head, the same way she might at the caprices of a young boy.

Weiskoft repressed his own smile. It was no different from how he himself had felt when he arrived for work this morning, warmed up the cockpit radio, and told Andrews: "We’re going to be _Air Force One_ today." It didn’t matter that everyone on base had known that for days already, and on most trips for weeks in advance. The thrill of those magic words endured.

Time to earn his salary. "Have a pleasant flight, Mr. President. Ma’am."

It was the Flight Captain’s prerogative to take the controls for all departures and arrivals. Weiskoft hurried up to the cockpit, where his flight crew was ready and waiting. He shrugged out of his uniform blazer, took his seat, strapped himself into the X-shaped safety webbing, put on his headset, and prepared to send the finest aircraft in the world into the wild blue yonder.

"Final ground control check."

"All stairs clear," Caplan reported. "All doors locked. Ground-line disconnected. Security is go." That last report was pure formality; they wouldn’t have been allowed to take on any of their passengers if the Secret Service and the Air Force hadn’t agreed that the plane was completely safe.

Weiskoft made one last visual check of the incredibly complex display all around him. "Angel" was ready. To himself and to no other soul who wasn’t also a pilot, he would swear that she was _eager_ , as though she were at least partially sentient in her own right – as though she knew whom she carried today.

Conveniently, she didn’t have to back away from a terminal, which no plane could accomplish without the aid of specialized aircraft-pushing trucks. But humans had been doing this long enough to work out all the bugs – well before they allowed a world leader to fly along. She was always positioned in advance to make boarding and departing as straightforward and dignified as possible for her privileged clientele.

In addition, for security reasons her custodians didn’t want any vehicles not absolutely necessary to come anywhere near her, in particular at other airports where such vehicles couldn’t be thoroughly checked over first. For once, dignity and safety worked together.

The Colonel opened the radio frequency. "Andrews, this is _Air Force One_. Permission to depart."

_"Permission granted, ‘Air Force One’,"_ came the tower’s prompt reply. It was _very_ bad protocol to make this aircraft wait.

With the official go-ahead, he set his hands on these familiar, responsive controls, released the brakes and started their slow roll forward. " _Air Force One_ taxiing."

An honor guard of 89th Airlift Wing stood in a ruler-straight line about a hundred feet off, flanking their flagship’s path across the tarmac. As she passed them, as the Great Seal on her forward fuselage moved before their eyes, one by one they saluted in perfect sequence. The President was on his way!

Andrews had no other ground or air traffic at the moment. Other aircraft of any description were never permitted to encroach upon "Angel’s" personal space, save U.S. military jets and then only in great need. Whatever airport she visited, the runways and skies were cleared at least fifteen minutes before and after her in the equivalent of a red carpet. Yet even with all this open area, taxiing was sort of like towing a tractor-trailer the length of a football field. She cruised somewhat ponderously to the head of the principal runway and turned into the wind.

_"Andrews to ‘Air Force One’: cleared for take-off."_

A 747 can accelerate with astonishing swiftness to a frightening velocity; it needs to if it has any hope of getting its colossal bulk off the ground. Weiskoft pushed the throttle control lever firmly to its maximum, relishing the unbelievable power in his hands that continued to build without apparent limit. "Angel" virtually shot forward like the thoroughbred she was, engines howling. He kept her on course straight down the runway, going faster with every yard, and at the right speed he drew back gently on the yoke, lifting this behemoth off her front wheels, then off her back wheels as well and into the free skies, aiming her towards the very gates of heaven. The sheer thrust from turbines the size of locomotives pressed every single person on board back into their seats, hard. It was an exhilarating sensation, to be surpassed only by the space shuttle itself.

As delicately as a doctor using medical instruments, the Colonel gauged the angle of ascent and soon began to adjust their trim. This flying miracle banked, showing far more grace in the air than on land, obedient to his every command. Here, she was in her element. Passengers seated on the "lower" side obtained an Angel’s-eye view of the capital of the strongest nation on earth in all its magnificence.

" _Air Force One_ now on course, climbing to three-five-thousand."

_"Roger, ‘Air Force One.’ Best wishes to the President."_

In the strictest sense, that blessing had not been standard communication. The funny thing was that, no matter where or when "Eagle" flew, some air traffic controller from at least one of the towers that monitored his course always transmitted a similar message. It was a kind and deserving recognition of just who was flying today.

Long before the climb leveled out, the landing gear had retracted and this winged ship of state had adopted her famous streamlined profile. Her pilot homed in on the first electronic link in an unbroken chain of airport towers guiding them to their distant destination. He could rhyme off the cities over which they would pass, but he liked to consider the geological wonders as well: the truly ancient Appalachians and the only slightly younger Allegheny Mountains, the convergence of the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, the richly forested Ozark Plateau, the seemingly endless Great Plains where bison once roamed in their millions, one of the widest stretches of the spike-peaked Rockies, the Four Corners (the only spot in the U.S. where four states meet), the craggy splendor of the Grand Canyon (clearly visible even from this altitude on a cloudless day) and the bleakness of the Mojave Desert just before coastal California. It was the straightest route, with the added benefit of avoiding the major flight terminals and thus the busiest jet lanes. _Air Force One_ naturally claimed priority, but even she had to abide by the rules of the road and not deviate from her flight plan without excellent reason. Other flights were directed around her in a very carefully controlled manner at all times.

Once their cruising altitude had been reached and the skies ahead confirmed clear, the Colonel handed over the controls to his co-pilot and observer, retrieved his blazer and began his private tour. The pride of any commanding officer for his ship, whether it sailed on water or on air, demanded that he personally guarantee all was well. Besides, he always made a point of seeing who had come along for the journey. Of course the White House always sent over a passenger manifest, but he wanted to know the faces as well as the names. Prudence advised it, in case of emergency, and they were his responsibility as well. Not only that, but his occupation, his training, his _life_ was in the details. It had become second nature.

The White House Chief of Staff and the White House Communications Director remained behind this time – and probably not by chance. C.J. Cregg and Toby Ziegler had flown to China; they’d been in the thick of the relapse crisis. They deserved the break. In their places were Leo McGarry and Charlie Young, two other people no less dedicated to Jed Bartlet’s welfare. Likewise, the Surgeon General had been replaced by the official White House physician, a two-star general. Excepting Curtis, the President might well have asked for each substitution on purpose. If so, one reason could be to shatter any hint of an association to the China trip, as well as the aforementioned curses or jinxes.

By contrast, the Colonel had deliberately chosen the exact same crew as last time, in his effort to bury the painful recollection for them all under a newer memory of a successful flight. On a less optimistic note, he’d especially wanted the same medical staff, who had personal expertise with MS patients.

God forbid that such expertise should be needed again. But none of them wanted to take the chance.

Weiskoft had been both an indirect witness and a direct player in the drama of the President’s airborne onset of paralysis. It was a very unpleasant memory – his natural concern for his elite passenger, plus his duty to the welfare of passengers _and_ plane, at a time when everyone was yelling about which way the plane should go. He’d been afraid that he would find himself caught between executive orders and medical opinion. Could he be expected to disobey his Commander-in-Chief for the sake of his Commander-in-Chief? Technically, the Flight Surgeon could override anyone, but it would have been more than a little embarrassing to deny "Eagle" his wishes.

In the end, "Eagle" had triumphed – and in more ways than one. Several people had since compared his China trip to Richard Nixon’s. True, there had been less hostility in the air this time... yet huge international advances were made just the same.

For this domestic and _personal_ trip, the Deputy National Security Advisor had also not been needed. Likewise, the number of Secret Service agents appeared to be somewhat reduced. However, Weiskoft saw Ron Butterfield at one point and remembered yet again that the President’s safety trumped all other concerns no matter how brief and benign his travels might be intended. Besides, it would be harder than ever to secure a location when the protectee can’t run for cover.

Memorizing all of _their_ faces was a lost cause; they were too numerous and looked too much alike, and they constantly changed from trip to trip. But at least the Colonel had a head count, and consoled himself that they knew how to take care of themselves and the other passengers as well as or better than his own crew did. A soul couldn’t ask for better partners in a crisis – or worse enemies.

One uncomfortably familiar face, present on every executive flight, belonged to the major carrying the "football." That leather satchel was sealed inside its blast-proof locker during the flight, but on the ground the major was responsible for keeping the nuclear launch codes to the United States military within the President’s reach at all times. Weiskoft sure didn’t envy him. He considered it a serious enough task already to fly this splendid plane, and to deliver "Eagle" safely, without thinking too much about that potential for cosmic destruction.

His task was right up to specs. The marvelous interior of comfortable earthen tones and leather chairs under soft yet effective lighting all shone with cleanliness and order. The twenty-six crew members went about their myriad duties flawlessly, exhibiting a professionalism every bit as polished as the wooden furniture. Working together like the team they were, they could serve this plane’s maximum capacity of a hundred and two people with fluid ease. Everyone assigned to the pride of the Air Force took his or her duties _very_ seriously.

Still, they were human, and no human is completely immune to gossip. At one point he was approached privately by the personal steward to the President, who had overheard the First Couple talking while he discreetly served them. This young man felt, rightly, that his commander needed to know about a "temporary setback" to Bartlet’s health just three short days ago – which didn’t sound all that minor at all. He’d suddenly been unable to walk again.

Actually, the Flight Captain had been briefed on this by the Flight Surgeon the day before, who had been briefed in turn by the First Lady. Yes, this had serious implications – not only about the round trip, but also for the funeral itself, never mind any delayed reaction after they returned to D.C. One setback, however temporary, might lead to others. And yet, The Man was back on his feet now and looking surprisingly good. He hadn’t said one word about his condition, whereas he’d said a lot about this trip’s absolute necessity.

One and all, they were under his authority. They could only press onward, and hope that he was up to it, and pray nothing happened.

Weiskoft dropped by the infirmary, as he always did; he wasn’t going to avoid it out of superstition that his presence might somehow influence cosmic forces and press it into service, nor was he going to micromanage its preparedness. Everything was as ready now as on the previous flight. The fact that the infirmary had been badly needed on that previous flight had no bearing on today. However, if it should become needed again...

At length the Colonel returned to the flight deck. Even though he had his own private office on this level, even though a lounge existed nearby for the comfort of the crew members, and even though nothing could be seen outside except cloud and sun at this altitude, he preferred to stay in the cockpit than anyplace else. Call it a control issue, but should something happen – no matter what the cause – he’d be in the best possible spot to deal with it.

He reclaimed his seat beside Caplan, which the observer vacated upon his return, and started rechecking all readouts. Right on course and running smoothly.

Someone knocked on the cockpit door. That in itself was no huge surprise; authorized people came and went all through each flight. But when they saw who stood there...

Weiskoft had a reputation for keeping his tone low and controlled, for saying only what needed saying. This sight startled him out of his murmur mode. "Mr. President!"

Bartlet balanced on his crutches in the narrow doorway and grinned at this display of disbelief. "Hi, fellas. Mind if I join you?"

He made a point of dropping by on every trip, usually quite soon after take-off. They hadn’t expected him this time, though. How on earth did he get up those narrow stairs?

He answered their unspoken question. "Curtis is having an easier time of it on this flight." Granted, he was breathing quickly and somewhat flushed from the exertion, but it seemed that he could handle steps after all. That sounded like real progress – especially after Wednesday’s reported backsliding.

He looked more natural than ever, now in his nylon flight jacket with the Presidential Seal on the right breast, and wearing his patented teasing smile. Only the steel supports sounded any kind of incongruous note.

"You’re always welcome, sir." The Colonel rose to help his leader into the observer’s seat.

"Wouldn’t miss it." Bartlet fastened his own seatbelt, its buckle emblazoned with the same Seal, as was every other buckle on board, and stowed his crutches carefully at his feet. "Besides, I have a rep to uphold. I mention _once_ that I like to set my watch by your clock, and now everyone expects it of me all the time." He checked the chronometer and adjusted his wristwatch accordingly.

Weiskoft wasn’t one for small talk. When he opened a conversation, he had a goal in mind. "How are you feeling today?"

"Bored." The President sighed. "They call this thing the Flying Oval Office for a reason: I always get lots of work done up here. But everyone’s reminding me that this is a personal trip, not a business trip, and no one will let me do a thing! So I thought I’d hang out with the guys who _are_ working."

Clearly the White House staff had conspired to try to get him to rest – with a spectacular lack of success. The Man usually found at least a little free time to wander the plane and visit with his staff, and sometimes even the reporters in steerage, no matter how much work he’d brought with him. Denied such work on this trip, he was probably filling his luxury of freedom by talking to everyone.

"Besides, you’ve got the best view by far." Bartlet leaned forward. "I love the sensation of flight, and lately I’ve come to appreciate the thrill of speed a whole lot more." Understandable, considering how his personal locomotion had been so hampered of late. "Although I have to admit that watching anyone fly this monster solely on instruments is counterproductive." He shifted just a bit nervously, and regarded the solid banks of controls on three sides and even on the ceiling of this rather confining area. Weiskoft wondered briefly if that could be a symptom of slight acrophobia... or even claustrophobia...

"Now, flying at night is glorious. You can lose yourself in the eternal beauty of the stars." The Man was smirking. "I need to hire more poets; no one on my staff appreciates the opportunities I provide for them to let their _spirits_ soar as well."

His hosts did not comment; even they didn’t enjoy the three-AM departures. Night flying came with a whole different set of hazards.

"On the other hand, daylight has its advantages as well. When there are no clouds, I could paste myself to a window and watch the land drift past beneath us."

The Colonel nodded out their windshield at the world of azure sky and solid cotton batten. "They should clear in the next hour or so."

"Great. And I take it everything else is on track?"

"Yes, sir." He took no offense at being asked; things could still happen.

Bartlet must’ve thought of the same prime example. "Remember when we believed our front wheel wouldn’t lock?"

"All too well." They’d handled the emergency with excellent discipline and eventually solved the problem – but that had been another genuine crisis on board.

"Is it true that this plane can stay in the air indefinitely? I mean, assuming we could continue to be refueled. And if we didn’t run out of food, ‘cause then you’d have a real mutiny."

"Actually, sir, the recommended airborne limit without maintenance is closer to three days."

The Man blinked. " _Three days?_ That’s all?"

Weiskoft balanced his pride in his command against the unyielding laws of mechanics. "It’s still longer than just about any other plane in existence. But sooner or later the engines will seize up for lack of oil."

Bartlet shook his head. "I’m really rather grateful I didn’t know that three years ago." His smirk started growing again. "How many Presidents does it take to change a light bulb?"

The Colonel normally found chatting with his Commander-in-Chief pleasant, although at times it taxed his straight-laced military bearing. He resigned himself today to humoring a very intelligent man with a quirky sense of humor and literally nothing else to do. "None; he has Congress to do that for him."

"Eagle" chuckled. "I was going to say one, after he’s cleared it through fourteen committees and complied with twenty-six constitutional amendments, but I like your answer better."

Weiskoft glanced at the time himself. They were due for a flight crew change soon. "Angel" always had three, even for comparatively short trips, and the malfunctioning landing gear indicator light proved the virtue of that precaution: they’d ended up spending three times longer aloft than planned. He’d hold off the switch until after his guest’s visit, though.

His guest leaned back and laced his fingers behind his head. "Hey, I saw the National Geographic documentary on this plane the other week. They referred to _Air Force One_ as a triple-decker limousine, with wings."

Pilot and co-pilot traded an unreadable look. That quaint term didn’t do much for them.

Bartlet was obviously reading their expressions, and now he delivered the punch line. "Governed by the quest for perfection."

This time the two ranking crew members nodded. They could get behind that compliment just fine.

After a while, the President decided to take his leave. "Time I went and bothered someone else," he announced merrily.

"Good to have you here, sir." The Colonel rose first and helped him to stand, then decided to follow along. Curtis was waiting in the crew lounge and rose to join them.

Their route took them through the bleeding-edge-of-technology communications room, a veritable tunnel of controls and readouts that threw a visible glow against the ceiling. It was staffed round the clock by military strategists and security personnel. It coordinated every phone line, fax line, Internet connection and TV signal on board. It could connect with any other phone in the world. And it could manage operations very effectively during a national cataclysm, should the President be caught away from the White House. "Angel" contained a million and a half feet of wiring, twice the standard for a 747, in order to accomplish it all. Wherever "Eagle" went, he could never be out of touch.

At the top of those problematic steps, all three stopped together. The staircase was too narrow for two people side by side. Just as Weiskoft started calculating how best to handle this, Bartlet handed one crutch to his body man.

"You go first."

The powerfully-built personal aide complied, descending backwards. Good idea: he would be an excellent catcher should his boss lose his footing. There was a real danger of him falling headlong.

Then "Eagle" grasped the rail with his free hand and started carefully down. He didn’t try more than one step at a time, pausing when both feet and the remaining crutch were secure on each new level. His Flight Captain followed a couple of feet behind, just in case.

Their pace was excruciatingly slow, but The Man made it on his own. Breathing hard, he reclaimed the other crutch and silently, wearily headed towards his cabin.

Weiskoft was impressed anew by this proof of growing strength. Still, he sincerely hoped that his President _did_ rest now, or else he’d have nothing left when they reached L.A.

The rest of the trip went as smooth as corn silk, taking almost exactly five hours at a steady six hundred miles per hour. Actually, they’d picked up a tail wind over Oklahoma and had to slow down, since landing early would foul up the entire schedule for those on the ground – public, press and security together. Even the military had to be a part of the whole media thing, keeping time with the rest of the world despite the elements themselves not always wanting to cooperate. It was one thing to be late due to weather, but early because of it wouldn’t occur to most people. Weiskoft had flown for two previous Presidents, and he was an expert at killing or gaining time as needed. The leader of the free world always arrived exactly when he was supposed to.

A bonus was that they’d save a bit on fuel as this obliging twist of nature pitched in to convey the President to his destination.

Ahead of "Angel," for any flight (even domestic), went a veritable army to prepare the way. This included five huge cargo planes carrying at least ten custom vehicles and three helicopters for the motorcade, as well as security equipment and enough firepower to fight a small-scale war. With them went six flying fuel tankers, and the press plane carrying all but the select few reporters riding on Air Force One herself. Each plane had its own flight crew and maintenance crew, and some carried back-up Secret Service agents. All of these people had to land in advance so that they’d be in position to photograph The Man, or transport him, or simply protect him. The amount of preparation that went into every presidential visit was mind-boggling.

Then there was the other executive 747, an identical twin sister to this one except for the tail number, which would stay out of sight of all and sundry unless needed. That might seem like an atrocious extravagance, since it would most likely be needed only in case of a mechanical problem in the other plane, and both aircraft were serviced constantly by the finest technicians in the world. However, America couldn’t have her Head of State stranded because his personal plane broke.

And all of these preparations were for one man. They didn’t follow the Vice President, or former Presidents, or members of the President’s family, or the President’s personal guests. But when Jed Bartlet flew, he took the federal government with him. The Armed Forces had a lot more to worry about than just getting him from Point A to Point B.

This humungous escort was, for the most part, surprisingly covert. No one wanted the appearance of an invasion, for such it was. To most witnesses Air Force One appeared to fly alone, in solitary splendor, secure in her impregnability, with nothing to distract from her or her passengers. Still, too much depended upon one of those passengers to entrust his life to only one metal object, no matter how well-constructed.

Even as "Angel’s" identity and coordinates had been handed off from one civilian airport tower to the next along her flight path, all Air Force bases anywhere near that same route were also on alert during her fly-over, in case they needed to send fighters to her defense. The speed with which fully-armed squadrons could scramble for the sake of a President in distress was one of the greatest sources of pride in the entire United States military. Their brisk, formal acknowledgements when this 747 cruised overhead were an accolade in their own right. They considered it a huge honor to be so relied upon. Only after their leader’s plane connected safely with the next airfield did they dare to stand down.

As he finally began their slow, steady descent, the Colonel issued his confirmation to the last of these bases, an oblique thank-you for their vigilance. Then he homed in on his target. "LAX, this is Air Force One. We are on approach."

The response was immediate, of course. "Roger, ‘Air Force One.’ The skies are clear. Welcome to the President."

By now all other local flights were already either grounded or shunted into a distant holding pattern. Anyone with a flight plan over southern California today would have been told well in advance that for a certain time window they could not enter this particular vector. It was another way of paying homage to their duly elected national leader.

Los Angeles International was one of the busiest airports in the world. Pilots didn’t like it, with its complexity and its sheer volume of traffic. The Secret Service detested it as one enormous security nightmare. Everyone aimed for minimal disruption of all the other commuters, a far easier goal on long-term planned trips – this one gave them all of three days’ notice.

By now the crew could see the larger landmarks and the ocean in the distance. "Angel" threw her huge wingspan of a shadow across neighborhoods and highways as she glided closer and closer to the ground. They raised the flaps notch by notch, steadily reducing velocity. They took the precaution of lowering the landing gear just a bit earlier than usual, remembering that incident a few years back. God forbid that such a catastrophe might happen in front of everyone. But today, as with almost every other flight they’d ever had, lights were green all across the board.

They crossed the runway threshold at barely higher altitude than the plane was long. As at Andrews, this strip had been checked by hand well in advance, so everyone knew it was secure. Evaluating factors precisely, Weiskoft chose his moment to cut all thrust and pulled back on the yoke. They touched down at one hundred and twenty-one miles per hour for an amazingly smooth landing considering the aircraft’s sheer size.

In the distance, the recently-unloaded mirror motorcade, the welcoming dignitaries, the bodyguards, the press and the public awaited. The Colonel taxied over, checking with ground control and tracking his established path precisely. One man in a dark suit stood in a carefully-selected spot on the tarmac several points to starboard, holding his arms out straight. At a certain point he slowly began to raise them, fists drawing towards each other. The moment they touched, Weiskoft rolled to a full stop. _Air Force One_ halted right in place, and right on schedule.

Once the engines were powered down, the Colonel left the cockpit and hurried downstairs, just as a lift identical to the one at Andrews was being nudged up to the now-open main hatch. He stayed out of sight of those gathered outside, but was fully visible to the First Couple as they exited their suite and walked his way.

Neither would require their overcoats in California. Bartlet had exchanged his flight jacket for his suit blazer. As an added bonus, he appeared fresh and ready to step into the media glare. Perhaps he’d managed to relax during the enforced idleness of their flight after all.

He stopped short of the exit, now looking just a bit wary. "Showtime."

Weiskoft nodded gravely. "Yes, sir."

It was like a carefully scripted production, in more ways than one. The crutches, the lift, the wheelchair... the relapse in general... The Man’s entire image had taken a beating of late. He needed to work hard to repair that, even as he struggled to regain his health. This would be the first official public appearance of the steel braces.

The President turned to his wife. "I know it’s only proper to let the lady go first. However, just this once..." He hesitated, suddenly unsure of his words.

Both of his listeners understood. He had to do this alone. He had to deal with the blow to his own pride and the pity he loathed. He had to go on, doing his job no matter how hard it got, and leaving no one in doubt that he _could_ do it.

She took a moment to weigh this, to evaluate his conviction, to gauge the risk he ran the moment he moved beyond her reach – and nodded.

A lot of people had turned up, more even than usual. No doubt they’d come, not just to see their leader, but also to see what condition he was in.

Normally he strode forth with a beaming smile and paused for a broad wave before trotting down the stairs. Today he materialized out of the dark interior and stepped directly onto the lift, head down and features set in concentration. The crowd seemed to hush in sympathy – perhaps even in fear. This energetic, authoritative man... was crippled.

It proved to be only a striking prelude. Having found a secure stance, he shifted his right crutch, straightened, listed his free hand and unleashed that broad grin for all to see. The suppressed cheers exploded. This determined, courageous man was their President.

The First Lady appeared next, engendering a new shout just for her. She too smiled and waved as she joined her husband; then she said something to him that no one else heard. Her message could be guessed, though. He nodded in acquiescence and secured a safe grip on the rail with that free hand. The gate/ramp was closed, and the lift carefully descended.

When Bartlet stepped off, walking openly on his own, his constituents sounded even more delighted. His health was national news, his collapse national drama. Yet here he was before them, flying across the country despite his recent severe handicap, demonstrating to the world his increasing physical progress and his continuing political fitness.

This President loved rope lines. He adored reaching out to the people. He was the single greatest offender whenever his plane or his motorcade departed later than planned. Today, though, medical logistics forbade it. Besides, this was a visit in mourning, not in celebration. He walked slowly to the limo, and only there did he stop, free his right hand again and offer another wave. Everyone, it seemed, waved back. Then he eased himself inside, his wife and staff followed, doors closed, and the long line of vehicles began to snake away.

With the person at the center of all this attention gone, and the stalled flights beginning to roar overhead again, many citizens started to drift away. Some stayed, though, content to gaze upon the one and only _Air Force One_. Other heads of state had copied the concept of a "presidential plane," most notably Japan, Germany and Russia – but they were pale imitations. The British didn’t even try; their Prime Minister almost always flew commercial. Nobody, but nobody received the supremely respectful and excited welcome that always greeted "Angel." She was the first of her kind, and she remained by far the most advanced. She was a political asset and a national treasure.

Having successfully completed the delivery, one might think that the crew could now kick back and relax until they were needed again, like a horse that had carried its rider far enough for the moment and needed to rest. Quite the contrary: the plane was at once readied for a possible instant departure. Bartlet shouldn’t be that long – about four hours, including a general reception and then a private supper with the family – but if an accident or an assault occurred they’d have to be prepared to take off with literally one minute’s notice. Fortunately, this visit was so brief that they had no need to restock the galleys; there was enough food on board for days. They did need to refuel, though, from the approaching tank trucks under armed guard.

Satisfied that everything was in order, as always, Weiskoft retired to the crew’s lounge and turned on the TV to watch the broadcast of the funeral. Some of his crew joined him with the same idea; others gathered around the two sets on the middle level. They had a personal link with their President that few others would share. They flew with him. They _knew_ him.

The local news channels covered "Angel’s" arrival at the airport and Bartlet’s arrival at the local Catholic Church in predictable depth. He drew even more attention than he would just by being President; every single news anchor referred at some point to his health, either generally or very specifically. He wouldn’t like that, of course. He was not the focus today. He didn’t want to distract attention from the person they’d all come to honor.

He paused in front of the steps up to the main entrance, and the Colonel drew in a slow breath. But no; he wisely turned aside and headed for the wooden ramp instead. These past weeks the issue of handicapped accessibility had been very prominent, for obvious reasons, and The Man wasn’t through with that issue just yet himself. The executive wheelchair rode in the limo trunk, right at hand in case he should need it again. His bodyguards seemed a bit more on edge than they were prior to the China trip, Ron in particular... most likely because their protectee was still unable to move in a rush even if his life depended on it.

No way could the cameras be kept out of the Church interior. Throughout the service, every now and then they closed in where Bartlet sat in the front pew, near the family. With his crutches out of sight, he looked so normal... in fact, he looked like any other member of the congregation, silent and somber and pondering the life that had ended.

There had been no formal announcement as to who would deliver the eulogies, but many guessed that the Chief Executive of the entire country wouldn’t have crossed a continent if he didn’t know the deceased well enough to speak about him. In fact, wouldn’t the family invite their special guest to do so? Sure enough, after several tributes by family and friends, the priest descended from the sanctuary to the front pew and presented a portable microphone.

It was a considerate offer, but the President decided that he had no intention of doing this sitting down. He passed the mike to his attending body man, levered himself up, obtained his crutches, and walked forward. All eyes followed him.

The three short steps up to the lectern might not be beyond his abilities... but he plainly did not want to make a spectacle of himself, either. If he fell, the press coverage would ruin this ceremony for everyone. So he stopped in the center of the transept, turned to face the gathering, exchanged one crutch for the mike, rested his free elbow on the ornate wooden railing, and spoke.

"We’ve heard a lot about Daniel Cesar Rojas today. We’ve heard about his family roots and his loving parents and his wonderful siblings. We’ve heard how he led the Catholic Workers, and how he helped disenfranchised Hispanic families, and how he worked with the gangs in the worst districts of L.A. We’ve heard about his health problems, which he endured with astonishing fortitude – and, in so doing, set a very high standard for the rest of us. His contribution to this city, to this country and to the whole human race deserves every compliment. But perhaps you’d like to hear something about the teenager I knew before all that."

"Eagle" stood comfortably in front of them, on the same level, not taking on any extra status either literally or socially, ignoring the cameras, ignoring the crutch as well. In fact he looked more like a stand-up comic with a walking stick than the most powerful man in the world. Now he proceeded to recount a few personal memories to that same world.

"Cesar was more than a great priest, and more than a great humanitarian; he was also a great friend. In fact, he was once my roommate at Notre Dame. That’s how long I’ve known him. Even as Iwas studying for the priesthood, I watched him make the same preparations under very different circumstances. At most universities, they paired roommates based upon their interests. It made sense that two aspiring priests should wind up together. But at first glance you’d think we had nothing else in common: one with a poor immigrant background on the West Coast and one from a family that formed part of the bedrock of New England." He shrugged self-deprecatingly. "Still, we got along in spite of my faults... because we shared two very specific things. Our faith... and our desire to serve others."

A thoughtful pause all round. That speech provided a fascinating glimpse into Jed Bartlet’s past as well. The fact that he’d once planned on ordination was public knowledge, even though he rarely mentioned it. He hadn’t come here to talk about himself, but at one point these two lives had paralleled each other quite a bit. Comparison was inevitable.

"Cesar came from what today we diplomatically call humble beginnings, but he never let that stand in his way. He dismissed all of the stereotypes and discriminations and worked his way up solely on merit. He taught me a lot about the human condition, priceless lessons that I have never forgotten. I greatly admired him. I regret that the last time we got together was decades ago, but we kept in touch no matter how much our lives diverged, and we’ve had some mighty fine debates over the phone. He was intelligent, knowledgeable and a very compassionate listener. He showed me a future that I never knew, because he took the path that I’d left."

The President of the United States hesitated. Everyone held their breath, expecting some really stunning revelation now.

"And I personally am convinced that he has made a bigger difference to more people’s lives than I have."

With that, he traded mike for crutch and returned slowly to his seat.

No other person in the building moved.

Weiskoft followed the rest of the broadcast until it ended, but nothing else noteworthy happened. He considered that very good news. For anyone who flew on "Angel," there was one word that evoked the worst terror: Dallas. When the 707 then in service had transported both a living President and a dead one.

On a slightly less depressing note, the Colonel had been on duty two years ago when this 747 flew three Presidents to the funeral of a fourth. That had also been a national loss, but not a national tragedy.

Weiskoft had put in thousands of hours at the controls of this wondrous human creation, though less than a third of those hours were as the pilot for "Eagle" himself. Most passengers were diplomats of various description, and most trips shuttled to and from Washington events. The First Lady was quite possibly the most frequent flier of all. These two identical and unequaled 747s were reserved for White House air travel operations, not the exclusive use of the President, but some people still didn’t realize that the call sign _Air Force One_ applied specifically to him, not to the plane itself. When someone else flew, these unique planes became known as SAM ("Special Air Mission") instead. The only other exception to this rule was when the ranking traveler happened to be the _Vice_ President of the United States; then his transportation billed herself as _Air Force Two._ For safety’s sake no Vice President ever flew on _Air Force One_ , since he and the President must never be in the same conveyance. Losing the incumbent of the Oval Office and the runner-up to that same office in one crash was too horrific to contemplate.

It was a simply amazing privilege to fly with this aircraft. She and her predecessors had changed the face of the modern Presidency, allowing the Chief Executive to travel anywhere and meet anyone. She was also a very effective political tool, both to impress foreign leaders and to win over domestic adversaries. She emphasized the power, the dignity and the responsibility of the office.

Some of the runway spectators never left for those entire four hours, even though they could get no closer than two hundred feet. _Air Force One_ was both a public draw and a flying fortress, with all the ups and downs to both images. She had become a very high-profile target herself – every bit as much as the President, for that matter – but she had her own armaments and her own shielding, well-prepared to defend herself and her passengers against electromagnetic pulses, heat-seeking missiles and many other byproducts of the worst weapons generated by this nuclear age. However, many of those defenses only worked in the air. Any plane is never so vulnerable as when on the ground.

One could almost sense that she knew it. She had to be more than a collection of nuts and bolts and steel plates and electronic circuits. An inanimate object like this _becomes_ animate through the lives and efforts of the people associated with her. She waited patiently, faithfully, allowing herself to be admired, yet eager to receive her Commander-in-Chief back into her protective care. After the White House, she was his finest symbol and his surest refuge. With him aboard and her engines engaged, they could take on the world together.

Standing there in the hot midday sun, beautiful, unmistakable, it seemed like she didn’t belong to the earth at all, or even to humanity. She belonged to the skies.

Her pilot felt exactly the same way. It was like they shared an almost mystical bond that only ships and their masters could understand. Take-off couldn’t come soon enough. He fretted just a bit about his Commander-in-Chief being _out there_ , in the open, exposed to threats left and right. Far better to have reinforced steel and ultra-advanced protection surrounding him like the thick walls of a tank, and to embrace the three-dimensional freedom of the celestial realm.

Bartlet’s return to the airport was virtually a reverse playback of his departure, up to a point. The crowds were, if anything, bigger than before. When he climbed out of his limo, their cheers buffeted the air like a wave. As though magnetized by such a show of support, he pushed past his staff and his chief bodyguard... and headed for the rope line.

Weiskoft saw it all through the cockpit window. The President couldn’t walk and shake hands at the same time, but he stopped often and spoke with everyone he could, laughing and chatting exactly as always. Many people reached out over the metal fences to touch his sleeves in a heartwarming gesture of support. Everyone could tell by his wide smile that he appreciated their kindness.

This was an act of blatant defiance to his doctors and proof that he was doing very well. His energy seemed to be holding up just fine, as though the crowd itself provided the best possible tonic. It was in defiance of security protocol, too; on crutches, he couldn’t duck instinctively even if there should be dire need. Eventually, the First Lady and the Special Agent in Charge managed to draw him away and back towards the lift and ultimately the plane, where he would be safe from both criminal intent and over-exertion.

Bartlet wasn’t reckless per se, but he always had a different view from the Secret Service or the medics about just how much risk he could run. He did hold onto the rail while the lift was in motion; that made sense. Rope lines, though, and travel for a friend’s funeral, were not open for debate no matter what condition he was in.

At "Angel’s" main entrance the First Couple paused together, standing there for several seconds, listening to the cheers, waving to the masses, digesting the slightly incredible fact that these total strangers liked them very much. Then they turned and disappeared inside. Another presidential visit had ended pleasantly and safely.

Crew members both aboard and on the ground swung into action. The lift was withdrawn, the hatch was closed, and the one-of-a-kind jet began to roll away. Again the skies drew back and sealed off a perfectly clear path for their queen. A very few minutes later, Air Force One again soared heavenward, leaving California behind until the next time.

Almost instantly relief settled over every heart on board. Now they were truly safe.

For certain folks, the concept of safety had mutated almost beyond recognition. Jed Bartlet really had no control over his day-to-day movements. Most people had to take care of themselves, and wanted to, but he was totally dependent upon others for his security. And while he rode "Angel," his well-being relied exclusively on hers. Without him she wouldn’t exist; she justified her existence by both transporting him and defending him. However, everyone else who answered to him and for him was in her care right now as well. If anything happened to this aircraft, she’d take them all down with her. She had become their master. In a way, the leader of the free world was just one more passenger. That sober thought cast new light on the definition of democracy as well.

Some while later, leveled out and winging steadily homeward, Weiskoft made another tour of his shining command. Perhaps some agents had remained behind to pack things up; perhaps a local politician had hitched a ride in order to confer with The Man about something. Perhaps the compliment had changed. He always felt best when he knew for sure. He worked with his crew and with the plane herself to make sure all was well.

He neared the executive office at the same time that the First Lady happened to emerge.

"Colonel. I was just coming to see you."

Of all the reasons that she might feel merited a discussion with him, Weiskoft couldn’t think of one positive subject. "Ma’am? Is everything all right?"

What he meant was, had something happened to her husband? He’d seemed fine when he boarded... but then, he had seemed relatively well at first when he boarded in China...

She smiled, relaxed and content, calming that initial anxiety. "Everything is very all right. Believe it or not, the President is asleep."

Nothing could be more natural than Bartlet feeling tired by now, after such a busy day and while still in a recovery curve. And yet, even on the longest and most exhausting flights in the past he had found himself simply incapable of sleeping. The journey from China didn’t count: that had been unconsciousness. A fatigue strong enough to surmount his innate inability to doze off had to be powerful... but, judging from his wife’s lack of apprehension, right now it was a blessing rather than a concern.

Air Force One cleaved the American skies, guarding her premier passenger’s dreams even as she carried him home.

*****

_(Big round of applause to the inspiration of Netcord for this chapter...)_


	25. Sitting President, The 25

**The Sitting President**

**by:** SheilaVR 

**Character(s):** Ensemble  
**Pairing(s):** No Pairing  
**Category(s):** General  
**Rating:** TEEN  
**Time Index:** Post-ep to _Impact Winter_ (6 th season)  
**Disclaimer:** Just because we fanfic writers like to invent our own take on the official version doesn’t mean we don’t appreciate the talents of the actual creators. I gladly join with other authors who have already posted their own projections of this episode – all fascinating, and all different!  
**Summary:** Family, friends and enemies observe as Jed Bartlet wrestles with his new life.  
**Gratitude:** To Jessica, both for inspiring this and for invaluable guidance.  
**Author's Note:** This story was conceived prior to the airing of "Faith Based Initiative," and very quickly builds an alternate universe as a result. I chose not to adapt to subsequent revelations and plotlines on the show. My premise is that our President would have to stay in that chair for at least a little while. 

* * *

**Chapter 25:** _JED BARTLET_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

There is a very fundamental and justified reason why the future is not open to mortal eyes: because knowing what was about to take place would both ruin our pleasure and poison our decisions. If people knew how sporting events were going to turn out, no fans would watch, therefore no teams would play, therefore there would _be_ no sporting events. If people knew the results to games of chance, gambling could not exist. If people knew that an invention or experiment wouldn’t work, and therefore they didn’t bother to make the attempt anyway, then they’d never learn how to fix the errors so that the next attempt came that much closer to success. If people knew that they would be caught for their crimes, they’d be as inclined to try a different method in the hopes of escaping detection as they’d be inclined to give up on the idea in advance – and if they knew they _wouldn’t_ be caught, they’d commit the crime for sure. If people knew they were about to die, they would go to huge lengths to foil that fate, and their extended life would continue to impact upon the human race in innumerable ways for good or ill. If people knew which side would win the war, then at least lives would be spared in the short term... but the "winner" would be no less arrogant and the "loser" no less bitter – plus, both would still have the full military strength not spent in pounding each other into submission, which means they would both be very much inclined to use that strength in some other fashion – such as not making the same mistakes that had been foreseen. If world leaders knew what political deals would fall through and what diplomatic events would turn into disasters, they could avoid these things... but what necessary work would not get done as a consequence?

If people knew the future, they would act on that knowledge, and in the process they’d change the future anew, thereby rendering the entire philosophy of predicting that future redundant. Also, they wouldn’t be inclined to attempt things that they knew for sure they couldn’t accomplish. Some of humanity’s most spectacular failures have still produced unexpected benefits on the side, not the least of which is perseverance and confidence from hard experience. It is in the striving that the soul grows and matures.

The President of the United States stumped slowly towards the Residence. It was Monday, the dawn of a new week filled with potential, and early in the fourth week of his convalescence. It was January, with a fresh dusting of snow, and he’d elected to pass through the West Wing halls rather than risk a slip on the West Portico outside his office or go through the ordeal of an overcoat. It was noon, and his wife awaited him upstairs.

If she hadn’t been, he might well have put up a fight about his enforced naptime. However, she’d made it very clear from the start, to his personal secretary and to others, that nothing short of national calamity was to infringe upon his scheduled recharging period, and as the weeks went by she hadn’t let up one bit. Neither had Debbie, for that matter. And just to put a fine point on the embarrassment, Curtis followed to make sure his boss got there. No deviations.

There were times when Jed Bartlet refused to believe that his rank in this country – indeed, in the world – provided any real privilege at all. He was just as human, just as mortal, as all of those who joined him on this journey.

Walking was wearisome, painful and tricky work, but he congratulated himself over being able to stay up for longer stretches, as well as showing a pronounced improvement at avoiding trouble. He didn’t have to consciously direct every step anymore. Right arm moves with left leg, and vice versa. Often his arms and shoulders ached every bit as fiercely as his legs did, but the rhythm settled into place faster and faster with this recent practice. It reminded him, nostalgically, of crawling on the floor at play with each of his children and his grandchildren in turn. Walking these days made him feel like he had four legs and no arms.

This increasingly automatic yet still-drawn-out task also gave him a surprising amount of extra time to think. Since he took longer to reach his destination, he might as well do something constructive in the meanwhile, and philosophy was an old companion.

Suffering is a constant of the human condition, and the endurance of suffering one of its greatest lessons. The holder of the world’s highest and most important political position should not be immune to that condition just because of his office’s prestige or influence. Jed thought about those of his predecessors who had suffered grave illnesses, and those who had died in office, some after lingering in misery. Some had been unable to exercise their executive function over an extended period of time. By contrast, he had reaped the initial harvest of a medical condition that had rarely interfered with his life or his job, and that vanished quickly after it did crop up. Then, following this far more severe complication, he had been granted yet another reprieve in that his symptoms were slowly clearing and had better than even odds of staying away for years to come. He had never been out of contact with his government, he’d surmounted challenges to his authority, and he’d reclaimed most of his physical strength and most of his political support.

This was a reprieve – a miracle – that he sometimes felt he didn’t deserve.

Deserving or not, he hated being dependent upon anyone for anything personal, for any reason. Again, his socio-political status didn’t grant special deference here; no doubt everyone else with a crippling handicap felt the same blow to their personal dignity. Yet he depended upon others constantly for business matters – conducting in-depth research, providing detailed information, convincing stubborn politicians, ensuring that their boss saw the big picture, and much more besides. Where was the difference? Perhaps because he _was_ so dependent upon others in the business of running a federal government, he especially didn’t want dependency in any other regard. That sounded reasonable, right? A person so often under the international microscope should be permitted _some_ privacy and self-sufficiency.

There was no shame in relying on others, Jed reminded himself yet again. Everyone needs someone at some point. His pride would be his downfall one day yet. It had already come close just by bringing him to this office, convincing him that he could do _anything_ , putting him in a place where that pride could wreak serious damage.

At least he hadn’t crumbled under this trial. He’d maintained some of the dignity of the office, he’d accepted it when dignity just wasn’t possible, and he’d continued to do his job properly. That wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t trusted others to get him through it: to keep him in the loop when he was sidelined, to defend him when he couldn’t be there in person, and to back him up when he prepared a course of action. There had been moments when he railed under his multiple restrictions – but if he’d insisted on doing everything himself, out of some stupid macho desire to look invincible, he’d have sunk his own ship in a big hurry.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t let his pride endanger the welfare of the nation when Zoey was kidnapped. That had been the blackest nightmare any parent could face, much less a parent entrusted with enough power to make abduction truly worthwhile in political gain and capitulation truly lethal in global consequence. Worse still, he himself had been an indirect yet critical factor in the cause. Although he’d since been forgiven by his family (and by himself), although the crisis ended positively, and although the country didn’t suffer in the end, his correct decision to put responsibility and caution before pride and terror provided cold comfort against the tormenting memory. He’d had a lot of invaluable help there, too.

And he hadn’t let his pride ruin the lives of those very people who have done so much for him when he accepted the congressional censure in his first term. For himself alone, for his error and no one else’s, he might have stood up and accepted the blame... or he might not have, if his ego had had its way. The clincher was what a legal fight would have cost his family and friends, in both financial and mental hardship. Especially to Abbey, who had acted solely out of love for him. Pride had no place at all in _that_ equation.

Hmm; perhaps he’d learned a little humility even before he got socked with _this_ life-changing disability. So much the better. With hindsight, the previous ordeals had turned out to be valuable preparation. How else could he have endured half of his new experiences without quitting the political-media scene in total self-disgust? Plus, he had seen from day one how everyone around him ached for his humiliation, and that empathy did ease the discomfiture at times. But all of them would’ve handled their ends far less well if they hadn’t seen how resolutely he tackled his. Not only had he been determined to fulfill his duty, he had also drawn upon the symbiosis of them trying to be strong for _him_ and made damned sure that he kept up his end of the bargain for their sake as well.

That symbiosis had made his endurance possible, but nothing could make it easy. Jed would never forget that stunning moment on the plane: the terror of suddenly realizing that he couldn’t move a single muscle below his neck... that the body he had owned for over sixty years was no longer his... that his deepest personal dread had manifested itself with more brutality than the most pessimistic medical estimates. Weeks later, recuperating steadily, this memory still had the power to make him shudder, and he expected it always would. All at once nothing else in the world had mattered. In the space of a few short hours he was reduced to a shell, a caricature. He lost control of every aspect that made him unique, and useful, and _free_. All of his abilities were neutralized, all of his privacy violated, all of his dreams destroyed, all of his future options hurled into an abyss beyond all recovery. How could he possibly do his job? How could he be anything to his family but a burden? How could he _live?_

Curiously, though, the mortification of those around him – mortification felt _for_ him – helped to beat back the panic, helped to ground him in reality. He wasn’t just a President: he was a man. Every human had the wherewithal to face this kind of horror; he knew that because many humans had in the past. Why couldn’t he? Was he less than them? On the contrary: he could take whatever circumstances dished out. He would not let his people down.

He would not let his office down, either. He wasn’t just a man: he was a President. Love... responsibility... concern... sworn duty... These emotions were like hammer blows driving home a railroad spike, ringing in his brain, steeling his resolve, impelling him onward. He seized upon the wealth of respect and love that surrounded him. He could do this. He _had_ to do this.

After that utter helplessness, regaining muscular control in his arms seemed like a feat of national importance. Even the wheelchair didn’t look so insurmountable then. He could think, and feel, and communicate. He could move about on his own (most of the time). He could reach out to others without always asking for assistance. He could work – and he had a lot of work to do.

Many praised his fortitude at adapting so swiftly to such a staggering handicap; those few in the know had emphasized this view with regard to leaving the plane in Beijing. Truthfully, that "prison break" had been spawned by frustration and the ludicrousness of the entire situation more than anything else. The President of the United States a virtual prisoner aboard his private 747, for want of a safe exit from it. Finally, his impulsive yet practical nature, and his appreciation for the absurd, had conquered pride and all the rules of propriety. Thank God for granting him a body man with such a gift of strength. Still, he’d deliberately avoided meeting anyone else’s eye during that endless passage through the corridor of _Air Force One_. He had carried Abbey across the threshold of their first home after their wedding, but he never thought he might one day get a whole new perspective on what had once been a noble gesture.

Jed remembered the impotent fury that had burned deeper into his heart with every discouraging report from his staff on the summit’s poor progress. He remembered the anxiety and the self-castigation that all of his preparations and hopes – not to mention the merciless demand on his health – might come to naught because he couldn’t be a part of the vital discussions. He remembered the savage determination to force his body to obey him, to walk even when his doctors and his wife insisted that he couldn’t. Okay; that had been pride after all, at least in part. He could still hear the fear in Abbey’s voice when he lost his balance, and feel the impact with the unforgiving tile floor, and taste the bitter resignation when he accepted at last that all the stubbornness in the world couldn’t help him to do his job this time.

It hadn’t been pride that prompted him to make one more attempt to salvage everything; it had been desperation. On the other hand, his pride had been salved a little bit. No one else would have dared a personal appeal to the Chinese President. No one else in the American delegation had proven worthy of Liam’s undivided attention. Ultimately, however, it had been for the world – not for the U.S. President, and certainly not for Jed Bartlet. He’d gone into that private meeting absolutely set on ending the senseless stalemate over North Korea. And Liam had recognized that ironclad purpose, looked past the physical handicap, and honored the personal cost. He too had wanted more out of those three days than well-scripted speeches. Together, both giving their best, they’d pulled it off.

Jed didn’t remember much at all about the flight home; mere moments after he finally got out of public view, he’d fainted right in his chair and fallen forward into Abbey’s arms. What he’d thought of as weariness in the past didn’t remotely compare to that murderous exhaustion. In his brief waking periods he’d been convinced that someone doubled the pull of gravity without warning him first. One torturous thought had haunted those same fleeting moments of consciousness: he’d done a fine job of wrangling another peace summit, but would he be there to see it? Was the price of diplomatic compromise his health – or his life? For world peace, he’d willingly accept. What he feared was if the parties disintegrated into bickering and the whole thing fell apart. Not that he really believed no one else could mediate successfully... but at least to know that he’d sacrificed his future and part of his soul for something worthwhile...

Again with the pride. The spring summit would proceed with or without him, and just because he’d been instrumental in arranging it didn’t mean that his presence would guarantee an affirmative outcome. The United States fan club hadn’t made huge inroads in Asia; one accusation of favoritism could demolish everything; the strongest nation in the world couldn’t impose its view of common sense upon other participants, either by reason or by force. At day’s end this pugnacious conglomerate of old adversaries would have to work out their differences in their own way.

Jed still had a distance to go himself with regard to self-improvement: just about every mishap he’d endured since the China trip could be traced to an overabundance of pride someplace. When he received the Russian delegation in the White House, he’d jumped at the opportunity to bring aboard the last objector to a North Korean settlement and come that much closer to sewing up a lasting peace accord in April. As a result he’d risked a second relapse – and very nearly suffered one – rather than look weak before his touchy guests, even though at one point he’d felt like he was being baked alive.

When Cesar died, Jed had seized the chance to demonstrate his fitness to the plethora of medics hovering around him and to the mass public scrutinizing his every move. Personal grief aside, refusing to attend a funeral because he didn’t want to be seen on crutches would have been inexcusably shallow, never mind how much better off he was compared to the state of his old friend in his final years. So he’d pushed himself, confident that he could handle the exertion. The only reason he knew he’d slept rather than passed out on _that_ flight back was because Abbey had commented afterwards on his snoring.

Jed admitted to himself that he’d succumbed to the lure of pride again when he tried to wheel himself around on the South Lawn ten days ago, and tipped over instead – right in full public view, too. And badly scared his bodyguards and his staff into the bargain. No doubt the press photos of that day would follow him into the history books. What a relief that he didn’t face another election, or else his opponent would be sure to drag such a slapstick image in front of everyone all over again. How reminiscent of Gerald Ford, who once emerged from _Air Force One_ only to trip and fall headfirst down the stairs to the tarmac. Amazingly, he was unhurt, but he never shook off that bumbling impression, which probably contributed to his defeat in the polls of 1980. At least Jed’s fall _up_ the stairs on the way to Abbey’s office had occurred inside the White House, away from the media glare... but it had been the same pride that refused to let him take the easy road, conserve his strength, not show off what he thought he could do. Sometimes he wondered if there was an independent, reckless force housed deep within his being that drove him relentlessly forward in moments like that, even when his own judgment knew better. Demons and better angels?

As he walked, and carefully watched where each crutch and each foot went, Jed could see the flash of the silver bracelet on his right wrist, shifting with each not-entirely-smooth pace. That deceptive piece of jewelry had proven to be an effective guard against letting his pride get in the way of logic: if he refused to use it, it decided when he needed help in spite of himself. The incident in the Situation Room on New Year’s Day made him feel pretty irresponsible – both because it had interrupted an unnecessary display of spleen and because he hadn’t even noticed what his temper tantrum was doing to his body. Neither factor contributed to a professional appearance around the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the only group of people who could still give him a sense of inferiority more than half the time.

He’d come close to denying the bracelet’s purpose entirely when he fell out of bed last Wednesday, and he blamed pride for that as well. As it turned out, Abbey would have walked in mere moments later, but of course he hadn’t known that in advance. Conversely, if he’d used the panic button at the outset, the agents would’ve informed her well after the fact and spared her a nasty fright. Jed didn’t regret trying to solve his problem unaided (that private distress signal was for emergencies only, right?), only how the problem defeated him. Losing his leg strength _again_ had frightened him so much that for some minutes he slid into frank denial. After a lot of fruitless effort and a lot more internal debate, the discomfort of staying on the floor finally beat out the distaste of yelling for help... and then, adding salt to the wounds, he couldn’t even muster a half-decent bellow. On previous occasions he’d made the Oval Office walls rattle. For the first time he really appreciated this electronic bauble. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to get something similar for every member of his family.

Those fatigue attacks were an excellent cure for ego, to be sure. So was the bitterness that hit him right at Christmas; at least there hadn’t been a recurrence of _that_ depression since. He still had to deal with a restricted diet, no matter how much some chocolate chip cookies would give him a welcome boost in calories and in spirit. And he still submitted himself to regular physiotherapy sessions, despite the pain and the boredom. He had to bear these unpleasant precautions in order to reduce the even more unpleasant setbacks.

And yet his persistent tendency towards personal pride had not been a total disadvantage in _all_ respects. It helped him recover from the chair topple and leave a much better image behind in the rattled spectators’ minds. It saw him through the National Anthem at that Scouting event at the Hay-Adams, diffusing what otherwise would’ve been an embarrassment all round. It encouraged him to stand every chance he got, if only to prove he could; one added benefit to his obstinacy there was that he got better at it, and could finally swap chairs unassisted. It prevented him from actually dreading the few formal events he’d been able to take part in, it enabled him to represent his office properly, and it taught him to face certain individuals and groups without acting overly self-conscious.

Then again, too much pride would also have stifled his usual good humor, which in turn would have discouraged quite a few other memories... like chair wheelies in the Oval, and "accidentally" banging into the Speaker of the House. Had anyone suggested it in advance, Jed would’ve scoffed that a few occasions of him having fun despite his condition would cheer up everyone else at least as much as it improved his own outlook. But it had.

What lightened the mood throughout the White House more than anything else were the clear signs of physical improvement and the positive medical reports. The staff didn’t suddenly stop worrying about him, and the Service didn’t ease up on their vigilance, and the media didn’t stop asking about his condition from day to day; that was too much to hope for. However, the center of all this attention found it far easier to deal with these many facets of protectiveness and pity and suspicion that he wasn’t fit anymore, once he’d been armed with the evidence that he was on the road to an almost-complete recovery. Not long now, and he could close this difficult yet at times constructive chapter of his biography for good.

Jed came to himself with a bit of a start: he had arrived at the elevator. He’d sunk so deeply into his thoughts that he lost track of the distance he’d covered and the halls through which he’d just passed – a less familiar path to boot, since he almost always used the external Portico even in winter.

He hadn’t even noticed who might’ve shared the corridor with him, and not one person had addressed him in passing. An empty hall in the West Wing at midday? Not likely. Had the staff avoided him, not wanting to be a distraction from the serious business of walking? Or was the Secret Service chasing everyone away from his path of pilgrimage? Abbey just might’ve put them up to it, to make sure he wasn’t delayed.

As usual, the agents gave nothing away as they fell back here and let their protectee ride upstairs alone. Alone, that is, save for his body man.

The President stepped aboard and chose a corner where he could brace himself and rest his arms for a few seconds. Unfortunately, leaning at an angle like this put extra pressure on his legs, not to mention the fact that his arms were no longer subsidizing his weight. When the lift stopped two floors up and the doors open, he untangled the crutches and tiredly continued forward. Curtis followed, an undemanding yet constant presence, and new bodyguards appeared out of nowhere like circumspect phantoms to dog their footsteps.

The ground and first floors of the White House sported the finest samples of its art collection, naturally – that’s the area open to public view. The Residence, though, had a display almost as grand; it made more sense to show items than to store them away, even if most of the viewers tended to be from only one Family. Magnificent paintings and exquisite statuary flanked this silent procession. Due to his restrained pace, Jed took longer to pass them; due to his increasing skill on pins, he had more opportunity to study them. He shook his head at the memory of hurrying between appointments so fast that he sometimes didn’t spare a glance for the opulence literally everywhere in his borrowed home. Amazing that anyone could become casual or even jaded about walking these beautiful and historic corridors.

At long last he neared his destination. Not far ahead, the door to the First Bedroom took on enormous proportions, as though it represented all of the personal freedom he had lost. He’d never spent so much time resting before in his life. That depressing concept made him stop in the center of the hall and heave a sigh.

His escort, of course, stopped as well. He could feel their eyes upon him, waiting to see if he would move onward again... or if he needed their help.

His legs weren’t trembling yet, but they’d welcome a break for sure. Besides, he was in no hurry to lie down, no matter who said he should. He glanced sideways, spotted an empty chair – normally used by security on the quiet midnight shift – and decided to sit down for a bit.

The moment he swung off-course, he ran into resistance. Curtis moved closer at once, his usually bland expression starting to pinch. "Sir?"

"Relax. I’m fine. I just want to sit and think for a few minutes." He matched actions to words and settled himself carefully into the straight-backed chair.

Charlie would have badgered him, with respect yet a comfortable note of playfulness. Curtis just stood there, mutely communicating genuine concern. In fact, his attitude verged on disapproving.

Jed met this attitude squarely; he had no intention of backing down. He almost never launched into an argument _planning_ to lose, but (unlike many other clashes of wills in recent weeks) he had better than even chances of winning this one. "Don’t give me that look. I’m in the middle of an interesting train of thought, and the moment I walk through that door it’ll get knocked right off the tracks. Give me five minutes – and no, the First Lady won’t have your head. _Mine_ , maybe... but I’ll take my chances."

The burly personal aide still didn’t move, which had become his way of asking if his boss was quite sure about this. Charlie would joke and cajole and tune right into the current executive mood, wacky humor and all, and as a result he’d be more likely to wheedle compliance. Jed missed that warm give and take, even as he had learned to appreciate the strong, silent steadiness that Curtis presented instead – but sometimes he _really_ appreciated the fact that his new body man hadn’t yet learned to stand his ground at all costs.

"Very well, Mr. President." Curtis also had the gift of motionlessness; he could imitate a statue as well as any Secret Service operative. Jed was getting better at reading him, too. He could tell that this quiet lad with the build of a football superstar intended to stay right at hand, ever patient, ever ready to serve, until The Man’s train of thought reached the station.

"No need for you to hang around, either. Go have your lunch. I’ll be back downstairs in an hour. As prescribed," he added with a touch of annoyance.

Curtis hesitated, then tossed a glance down the hall at the business suits now stationed against both walls.

"Yes, they’ll keep an eye on me!" Jed’s patience was starting to wear thin. "Besides, my wife will no doubt be out here in another few moments to lay claim to her wayward patient. Do you still want to be around then?"

He grinned briefly at the flash of definite unease that crossed his aide’s round face. Abbey had quite the reputation – a thing that wouldn’t distress her one bit.

"All right, sir. I’ll see you later." Curtis gave a formal nod and turned away to take the elevator back downstairs.

Alone at last, save for those human shadows ever within hail, Jed leaned back in his seat. He hadn’t been entirely untruthful; he did want to pursue his wandering thoughts a bit more prior to his enforced downtime.

He set his crutches aside so that he didn’t need to actually hold them... then took a moment to examine his hands, struck by something curious.

This man presented a stellar example of a desk-flyer whose primary tool was his brain. He’d never done heavy manual labor for any appreciable length of time. The wheelchair and the crutches, though, appeared to qualify. He took a quiet satisfaction in using them so well as to develop calluses rather than blisters.

Having achieved that small victory, without even realizing it until now, he decided to celebrate by making himself comfortable and letting his mind drift for a few more precious minutes before his tightly-controlled life reasserted itself.

Today was the tenth of January. The next President would be sworn in on the twentieth of this month next year. The current President had just over a year to live here, to work here, to make a difference in the world.

What would happen to the United States in the future? Who would lead it? What new challenges and disasters would they face? It wouldn’t likely implode without Jed Bartlet to look after it; the nation had already survived over two very turbulent centuries before he had any hand in it at all. Still, that didn’t prevent him from feeling at least a bit of concern for where things might go. He’d played such a big part in starting many current issues on their way. Even though it would no longer be his task or his responsibility, even though he’d be out of the government loop and forbidden from any _official_ role in national policy ever again, he knew he’d still follow along... forced to watch others shape the world the way he would have but never could, or the way he wouldn’t want to... and agonize over all the things he could have done better and _should_ have done better while he had his own chance...

That kind of self-torture accomplishes nothing. He’d done the best he could with the best he had; no one could ask more of him. He would eventually have to let it go and allow the next line of incumbents to do the same.

Would it be Russell? He didn’t have it in him to deal with the stress, to handle the complexities and to make the unpopular decisions that every leader must face. He was too used to playing it safe and catering to others’ support. How about Hoynes? He’d proven his reliability in national issues, and his _un_ reliability in personal issues. A President is still human, still imperfect, but the people wanted the office to be treated with more respect than that. Or might Santos pull off a surprise upset? He was still too much of an unknown, but he had the potential to be a worthy candidate. Still, you didn’t want to pick just the best of a bad lot – you wanted someone who could do the job _right_.

Well, then, what of Vinick? Some Republicans had made good Presidents, and some Democrats had not. That guy possessed the integrity for sure. If nothing else, he’d force the people to choose a good nominee, not just a smooth-talking one.

And after them? Would Sam run four, eight, twelve years from now? Jed sincerely hoped so. Not because he wanted his former employee and surrogate son to carry on his so-called legacy, but because he saw in that young man a wealth of talent and a strength of honesty that was far too rare in politics. The country would be the better for it.

He hoped he would live long enough to see the best future realized.

Switching gears, he started to wonder what might have happened to America if hehadn’t won the White House. Or even if he’d never gone into politics himself. He’d probably still be an economics professor, living a simpler – and in some ways a happier – life of obscurity. And not paying a whole lot of attention to Congress, which was what roped him into politics in the beginning. Hoynes would have won the Democratic nomination, and he might even have won the general... or he might not have. Then what about the next election – would it have gone to the incumbent for a second term? Would Hoynes have tried again if he lost previously? Or there could have been a totally new set of faces in Washington. The legion of possibilities was fascinating.

Would this hypothetical President have done a better job, or a worse one? Would he have faced more crises or fewer, bigger problems or lesser? He would’ve missed Rosslyn, unless he too had a child dating outside his or her race. He would’ve dodged a grand jury and a censure, unless he did something stupendously wrong in his bid either to gain power or to retain it. He would’ve avoided American deaths on foreign soil if he chose not to get involved in other nations’ quarrels. However, he wouldn’t have escaped the now-constant threat of world terrorism, or the dilemma of how to deal with Shareef. What decisions would he have made, and what repercussions would he have faced as a result? Jed ached to know, but of course he never would.

He shifted slightly in his chair, noting how his legs responded to his every command. Balance and coordination were his again; strength was coming along quite well. His own tenure had battered him in many ways, but it had never beaten him. Considering all the catastrophes dumped on him over these seven years, he could and should take pride in that.

What would Jed have done if God had sat him down the day before he announced his candidacy for President, and told him a bit of what is to come? "You will win, no matter how much you think you have no chance. And you will do great good for others, for the country. But there is a cost. You will lose your privacy and your safety. You, your friends and your family will be shot at; you will survive, but not without pain and fear. You will have to risk the lives of soldiers and diplomats; the causes will be worthwhile, but not all of them will come home. Your health issues will come out; you’ll endure public shame and official criticism, but a dear friend will die. You will have to make the most agonizing moral choice of your life; whether your ultimate choice is wrong or right, your youngest daughter will suffer for it and your wife will blame you for it. You will play a huge role in international peace and renewal, but you and your best friend will suffer serious health repercussions. If you take this path, you will be of enormous benefit to the country and the entire human race... but you have to be willing to pay the price of yourself."

If Jed had known then what he knew now, would he then have reached for this office? Almost certainly not. He’d willingly risk himself for the greater good, but he balked at risking his loved ones. He’d always accepted the danger in advance – accepted it as an academic abstract, a phantom not too likely to materialize, a vague theory they all could ignore. Knowingthat the danger would strike for sure, knowing that all their advanced security wouldn’t be enough to protect them, knowing that accidents would occur and medical complications would pounce... no, he wouldn’t ask that guaranteed sacrifice of anyone.

So he would never have become President, and he would never have done the good he did, or suffered the pain, or brought his family and friends through hard work and hellfire with him towards the better future they all dreamed of – the future that was now just a bit closer because of the good work they’d done together. And what price would the nation have paid in exchange, at the hands of a less talented and dedicated team of visionaries?

For good reason, the Almighty in His wisdom had revealed nothing in advance.

And all of this because Jed’s first presidential campaign had been intended as purely a farce. When it suddenly became real, at first he was terrified by his audacity. The joke gained a life of its own and ran away with him, and he couldn’t get out of it. At one frenzied point he wanted to call everything off. But then his pride kicked in again. His staff believed in him even when he didn’t. They didn’t deserve to be abandoned just because he’d been joking all along. They were patient with his fears, shored up his self-doubts, nurtured his talents, and when he hit his stride they followed without hesitation. They got him through it. They got him through all the quandaries and strains and misfortunes of the Bartlet White House, and that was a lot.

They got him through the relapse as well.

He never would have arrived at this point without his friends. Without Leo to suggest such a wildly optimistic bid; without Josh’s gift for campaigning; without C.J.’s skill for spinning the press; without Toby’s genius for speechwriting; without Sam’s eternal enthusiasm and optimism... without all of them, Jed would’ve dropped out early and been forgotten quickly. Or, even if by some fluke he actually reached the Oval Office, he wouldn’t have stayed in it – not without the hard work of his staff, not without the endless support of his family, not without every single person who contributed to his mandates and policies and initiatives over the years. Certainly he wouldn’t have been re-elected, and he rather doubted that he would have had the desire to try. Just think about the rough ride they’d all had in his first term (the Newseum shooting, the MS revelation, the congressional hearings), never mind his second (Shareef, Zoey’s kidnapping, Gaza). And now this. Yet these people, who had worked with him for so long, who had seen him at his worst, still deeply believed in him despite his failings. These people deserved their chance to improve the nation more than he did, that was for sure.

Throughout these years Jed’s staff had never faltered in their dedication, but of late some had adopted new venues. At times the recent, massive changes sweeping through his world unsettled him. Both Josh and Donna had left the House entirely, and he was the poorer for their departure. He hadn’t lost Leo to a heart attack, despite his raking fear that he might... he hadn’t lost Charlie to a completely different career, even though he’d reluctantly insisted upon that very thing... C.J. had risen to the challenge of Chief of Staff better than anyone had dared hope... Toby had learned to brief the press without actually killing any of them... These were ground-shaking mutations to a system that had always worked so well. Yet the Administration persevered, reaffirming their leader’s confidence in the varied talents of his people. Still, each of these factors had shifted the compass needle a bit farther from true north, where he had always found it most comfortable.

And then he had to mutate himself.

He refused to complain about his lot, especially since his lot had improved beyond all initial hope. He would not cheapen the surging gratitude for his healing and for the constant comfort offered by so many others. Nor would he question his God for the reason behind it all, having seen the considerable benefits that his condition and struggle had already bestowed upon the nation. Together, people and deity, they would emerge victorious. This was not about one man; this was about the resilience of the human spirit.

The Presidency had contributed in its own way. It infused its incumbent with a strength and purpose that he would not have had otherwise. If Jed hadn’t been elected, his health wouldn’t likely have crumbled like this... but if he had relapsed anyway, in whatever capacity as a private citizen, would he have fought his way back towards wholeness so fiercely? He would have lacked the burning necessity to drag himself up for the sake of an entire nation, with the spur of executive duty that couldn’t permit him to loaf and heal at his leisure. And he might have healed not only more slowly but also less completely as a result.

All right; that lessened the resentment caused by the stress of this job, which had undoubtedly caused the MS flare-up in the first place. Now, what about afterwards? His retirement was almost exactly a year away.

One abiding aspect of Jed’s nature was to be energetic and interested in everything. People had joked, when they thought he wouldn’t overhear – or, in Abbey’s exclusive case, when she wantedhim to hear – that he had the eternally youthful soul of an adventurous child. Most of his staff found that quality as endearing as it could sometimes be annoying. He took it as a compliment. Life was supposed to be fun, a celebration. He loved joining his grandchildren in their innocent world, and learning new facts about obscure topics, and playing games and swapping jokes with the few people with whom he felt utterly comfortable. He hoped he never lost that wonder at the world. When you stopped living, you began to die.

Lately, though, he’d been feeling old beyond his years. The exhaustion, the pain, the inability to handle his own ablutions or even dress himself... The worst of all that had since passed, but never before – not with the most vociferous congressional opposition, not from the most cutting media accusations, not during the hardest political decisions, not even when bullets and bombs targeted his family and friends – had he believed that he could not do his job.

Not until China.

In the end, he’d proved them wrong. Hell, he’d proved himselfwrong. He’d fulfilled his sacred duty despite it all. But now his duty, his commission, his life’s work, was almost over. Not because he couldn’t do it – that would’ve been hideous, and a specter he’d prayed daily to avoid – but because his time limit would shortly expire. It was a limit set in stone, which not even he could extend. And when it did expire, he would be just like all the other senior citizens out there: feeling obsolete, in less than ideal health, unable to contribute much anymore... no longer seen as useful to society.

No. Jed was determined to keep on serving in some capacity. It had always bothered him that holding the most powerful office in the world didn’t mean he could fix all the wrongs of the world. What else was that title good for? However, without that title he’d be freed from many of the political restrictions that had stifled him for eight years. He could work towards just, concrete goals in a different yet very beneficial way.

Some of his predecessors had proven that a former Chief Executive still had value. He would follow their example. He refused to become a hermit, basking in old accolades and writing about things long past. The boredom would kill him. Actually, there were quite a few options. He could teach. Lecture. He’d make a great unofficial ambassador. His existence was by no means over just because he’d had a medical setback, or just because he’d finished eight years in one government position – even if it was the top position.

Above all, he wanted to be productive. He wanted to help all those people he couldn’t help as President. He wanted to take on peace initiatives and humanitarian efforts that didn’t get the public attention they should. He wouldn’t need perfect health for that – merely functional health, and time to devote whatever energy he’d be granted and whatever influence he’d have left to the betterment of others. That would be the best legacy of all.

He also had plans for a long and happy retirement with his family. He couldn’t really make up for the months when the Presidency called him away, months that could never be recaptured – especially with regard to Annie and Gus growing up – but he was resolved that nothing else would ever again have the power to deny him his family time.

He had two final, very specific, very different fights ahead. The first was to work through this last year in office and do the best damned job he’d ever done, regardless of a predatory media and a fickle Congress. The second was to wrestle his way into old age so that he could have every last moment possible with his loved ones. He refused to let his illness or the punishment he’d endured as President cost them and him any more time together.

Someone once said – and he’d remember whom in another moment – that life is full of uphill battles. Having to face them and roll over them is a challenge, but the accomplishment is wholly rewarding, the view from the mountaintop is magnificent, and coming down is a blast!

Content with that closing thought, Jed decided to return to his schedule at last. He wasn’t sure how long he’d sat here, but he could expect a scathing welcome when he finally walked in on the lioness.

Then his eyes brightened at a new thought. He’d walk in on her, all right.

He planned his next moves carefully and deliberately, one step at a time. His bodyguards were pretending not to watch him, but he didn’t believe that for a moment. They’d spring to his aid whether he wanted it or not, which he didn’t. And the days of rising swiftly without a second thought hadn’t returned quite yet.

He gathered both feet so that they were braced under him, ready to balance his center mass. He planted both hands firmly on the chair armrests. He leaned forward, testing his control, and drew a precautionary deep breath. Then, slowly, he pushed himself upwards.

At full arms’ extension, his knees were still slightly bent – nowhere near locked. He didn’t dare attempt a lunge the rest of the way up, in case the whole house of cards collapsed and took him with it. By very wary increments, he shifted his weight from arms to legs, checking to see if the lower muscles could compensate for this awkward angle and if the joints could straighten the rest of the way on their own. For one second joints and muscles seemed to freeze, to waver, and he fully expected to be dumped right back down into his seat... then, gradually, his hands lifted clear of the armrests, his spine drew erect, and he attained his full height.

Triumph.

With no warning and no fanfare, he stepped forward.

The surprise on the nearest agent’s face, short-lived yet undeniable, was a wonderful recompense in itself. Jed didn’t dally, though; he wasn’t at all sure how long he could keep this up. Still, for the first time in a long time he felt close to normal. Grinning in anticipation at the scene to come, he opened the door and entered his bedroom.

Abbey was stretched out on the couch against the opposite wall, a file folder of some kind open in her lap. There could be no doubt as to who had just entered; no one else would do so without knocking first. She didn’t actually look up; she just threw him a glance that contained daggers for all its brevity.

"Great timing. In another five seconds I was about to unleash the Secret Service."

"They’re not as scary as you are," her husband countered in a light tone.

"I make sure of it." She sounded serious.

Jed kept moving forward, one slow yet steady pace at a time. The rest outside had done him good, after that long walk through the halls; he limped a bit, but he didn’t wobble. Still, he was grateful that he didn’t have to go far to reach the large armchair between him and the couch.

He stopped. Planted his feet for maximum stability, locked his knees, gripped the chair’s upper frame as a support. And waited.

He had less trouble doing so than he’d expected. In fact, he was having a lot more trouble not cracking up.

Then he saw what he’d been waiting for: his wife’s head rotating towards him. She had sensed something.

She looked at him. _Really_ looked.

The irregularity clicked at last. Her expression swiftly transformed from irritation and concern to pure disbelief.

He stood there, wearing a slight smile, one hand resting casually on the armchair, the other in his trouser pocket. Just like always.

_No crutches in sight._

Amazingly, she hadn’t noticed before this moment. His entrance had been so natural, had presented such a totally normal picture that matched so many memories from all of their years together, that nothing reinforced in any manner the captivating image of recent days.

This was an historic moment: Abigail Bartlet struck speechless. Her file folder actually fell out of her hands and landed unnoticed in a heap on the floor.

Jed hiked an eyebrow. "I can see you’re a little impressed with me right now."

That faintly teasing, thoroughly familiar, deeply beloved tone snapped her back to herself. She whipped off her reading glasses and leaped to her feet – a motion that far surpassed his in both grace and speed. "You’ll see how impressed I am later. Right now sit the hell down before you _fall_ down."

"Ah, the love."

He shoved off from the armchair and walked towards her. None too soon: his thigh muscles were already starting to ache from the unaccustomed task of bearing his full weight, and he couldn’t hide the severe limp to his right leg any longer. But he made it to the couch without falling or staggering. Chalk up another milestone.

She met him with both of her hands on either side of his face and a swift kiss to his mouth that expressed volumes yet didn’t upset his balance. Even before he could react to _that_ , she had one arm around his waist and was helping him descend into a safe seat on the sofa.

He permitted a sigh of relief. It felt great to take the load off his protesting limbs.

It felt even better to sit beside her and savor that accomplishment in its entirety.

Jed guessed from the visible pulse in Abbey’s throat that she hadn’t quite regained her equilibrium. When she pivoted in place and looked searchingly at him, he knew it.

"Tell me this is a less-than-recent development that you’ve been holding out on me, and you’re going back into that wheelchair the hard way."

"I tell ya, men can’t get enough of being threatened like this," he drawled, smirking all the while.

"No wonder you go to such lengths." This display of humor helped set the seal on what she still had a hard time believing she’d seen. "I know your legs hurt; they’d have to after that. How _much_ do they hurt?"

It was time to be somewhat less facetious. "An annoying ache in the right, mostly. I warmed them up on the walk over."

Her eyes narrowed shrewdly; this sounded too good to be true. "Did you rest en route?"

He pretended to take offense. "It’s ungentlemanly to keep a lady waiting!"

That was all the answer she needed. It also explained why he’d been so late. Her smile emerged full-strength. "Good thing you didn’t succumb to etiquette before you tried this stunt. Even so, you are definitely ahead of the curriculum."

"Great! When do I graduate?"

He could see the physician’s relays clicking over. "At this rate you might be ready for a cane by the end of the week."

"Much more dignified. Besides, then I can do my Charlie Chaplin routine."

"So much for the dignity. Plus you’ll be an even bigger threat to the antiques." Abbey sobered again. "But this’ll happen only if you take it easy, avoid falling, and push yourself to _reasonable_ levels."

"Quite a shopping list," Jed grumbled halfheartedly. "I’d better write it down."

"Be sure you do." She stooped, gathered up her fallen file and set it safely on the end table. "Meanwhile, I’ll get your crutches. I presume they’re right outside?" She started to stand.

He caught her hand, tugging her to a stop. "Forget ‘em. Nobody will steal ‘em." Not in the White House, that was for sure. "Nobody in their right mind would _want_ ‘em."

She obeyed his gentle pull and settled back down beside him. "Why do I get the impression that you’d be happier if someone _did_ lift them?"

"Because you have a naturally suspicious mind."

"That must be it."

She drew her legs up and snuggled close, not worried about applying any pressure his balance couldn’t handle since he had the end seat and was supported by both the couch back and the thick armrest. As he reclined his head against the sofa’s wing, she pillowed her head on his chest. His arm went around her shoulders.

Quiet descended upon the room... a quiet born of perfect peace.

Jed contemplated the voiceless joy of just sitting there, with Abbey hugging him tight, neither of them needing to say a thing. The ultra-impressive White House was still around them, but somehow its beauty and luxury and history stayed at a bit of a distance. He still commanded the sheer political might of the leader of the Democratic Party and of the free world, but none of that needed to be exercised just now. A cadre of wonderful friends still stuck by him, and they always would, but they weren’t demanding his immediate attention. For these priceless encapsulated minutes, he could rest on his oars and not worry about what might happen in another hour. That happened so seldom in his job that he really felt the contrast. He wished he could preserve this instant in amber forever. Nothing on earth could beat the serenity and love of being alone and quiet with his wife and soul mate, cherishing their private time together.

Abbey had been indescribably wonderful throughout their marriage, but during this most recent crisis in particular. She had constantly urged him to do his best, not letting him take the easy way out, and not letting him neglect himself as he probably would have done in sheer frustration. If she’d harbored any acrimony from past disagreements and fights, it would have surely come out over these weeks as she struggled with her own fears and burdens... and nothing did. No way could he ever repay her enough, or express his gratitude enough. He tilted his head forward to brush his lips against her hair, and smiled at the way she pressed closer still in response.

Sometimes he realized the dizzying depths of his love for her like a case of cold chills that took his breath away. In moments like that – like now – he would give up the Presidency, and his own life, for her in a single heartbeat. He appreciated all that she had accomplished by being the First Lady, and he saw in full glaring light the cost to her as well. Right now he truly regretted that he’d dragged her into this fishbowl existence because of his prideful optimism and a few friends’ encouragement.

She’d been the only one to know from the start that his first White House campaign was intended never to take off. Back then it seemed a safe bet that wouldn’t really affect their lives at all... Then, when some vital element shifted and the campaign became _real_ , she stood by his decision to honestly go for it. And ever since, she’d embraced her own task with a will. She’d brought a lot of press and funding to dozens of charities and similar foundations; she’d represented the United States on dozens of trips abroad; she’d won support for his administration without appearing to do so. She hardly ever complained when his work accidentally overshadowed hers; she watched over him when he couldn’t find time to take care of himself; she bolstered him when the weight of the Oval Office threatened to crush him. She challenged him on his particularly bad ideas; she didn’t let him get away with pretending he was right when they both knew he was wrong; she argued with him and mourned with him and suffered with him. She was the constant in his life, the one thing he could not live without.

Suddenly the next year couldn’t go by fast enough, so that he could leave this job and just stay with her for the rest of their days. It wouldn’t entirely repair the stress they’d endured and the painful conflicts they’d waged, the anger and the worry and the fear each had felt for the other... but whatever he could do to show his love, he would without hesitation. After eight years of the public’s attention and the job’s separation and the demand of duty and the weight of responsibility, forty years more wouldn’t be long enough.

Then she tightened her grip another ounce or two, as though she didn’t ever want to let him go, as though her thoughts might be following paths very similar to his. As though she would give almost anything to draw this beauty out for all eternity. And Jed was reminded that there were many different ways to show that love...

He craned his neck, but her hairstyle obscured her face from his point of view. He could feel her heart pressed against his, though, beating out a rhythm of devotion in splendid synchronicity with each other.

He could almost see the twinkle in his own eyes. Abbey had sensibly placed a moratorium on their favorite mutual pastime for an indefinite period, much the same way she had after Rosslyn. He’d intended to protest at length and often, confident that neither logic nor medical reports could be right about _that_... but the fatigue had convinced him where all else failed. They hadn’t discussed this topic since, and with the exhausting effort of both work and recovery he’d even lost interest in dropping hints.

Now...

Before he could launch a new and very specific campaign, she stirred again, then reluctantly started to sit upright. "Come on, you. This is supposed to be your sleep time, and here I am delaying it myself." She sounded guilty; it had been a major tenet of her sermons to him over the past month that the more he conserved his energy, the more he’d have, and the faster he’d heal. As much as she had wholeheartedly shared in this wondrous spell of peace, she wanted him hale again every bit as much as he did himself.

Jed quickly reshaped his plans. It would be much more fun this way.

"Madame First Lady." He regarded her with mock solemnity. "It is my professional evaluation that you are looking decidedly overworked."

Abbey cocked her head and raised a skeptical eyebrow, clearly wondering what he had in mind now. "And just what profession is _that?_ "

He ignored the challenge and continued in the same tone, keeping it as deadpan as he could. "Yes, indeed. For the sake of your own good health, which is of great importance to me, I do believe that _you_ could use a rest period as well."

Her features changed perceptively; she’d picked up on the undercurrents.

"Why, Mr. President." Her voice likewise attempted to stay somber – a losing battle. "You really shouldn’t be entertaining thoughts about such an extravagance of energy at this stage of your convalescence."

He knew he wouldn’t be able to keep up the charade for long, but he refused to capitulate so easily. "Madame, I am appalled that you should believe me capable of such base motives. A man of my age, and my health? And my social position? What impropriety. Shocked, I say."

"And if I believe that, you’ve got a state to sell me." She was fighting back laughter at his exaggerated attitude. "Like any of those details have gotten in the way before –"

He jumped at that slip. "Ah, then you agree that those details are true, and that I am therefore incapable of the positively impure intentions of which you accuse me." He couldn’t hide his own grin any longer.

She sat back another notch and leveled those fathomless brown eyes at him. "I should think you’d know better than to squander your window of opportunity with protests of innocence. Especially since they’ve never worked before."

Jed needed no additional indication of success. He couldn’t tell whether his unofficial physician was professionally satisfied with his progress or emotionally swept away by his charm, and he frankly didn’t care. Not only had he gained victory in the debate, he’d gained compliance in the implementation. Further objection never crossed his mind. "Madame does have a valid point. I suppose, for the sake of expediency, and to pool our resources..."

Abbey shook her head. "Spoken like a true economist." Then she reached for his right arm. "Give me that."

"Huh?" Her blunt request caught him off-guard; he could only watch as she grasped the silver bracelet in two hands and pried apart its magnetic clasp so that it could be slipped from his wrist.

She waved it playfully in front of his nose. "Do you really want this medical doohickey to send out a red alert in the next little while?"

He really grinned at that. "Yes, I predict a rapid increase in my heart rate in the _very_ near future."

Her eyes were dancing now. "Then let’s see how soon that future becomes the present."

"I second the motion." Jed raised a cautionary finger. "Just take the extra provision of turning that thing _off_. Some people might consider an _absence_ of vital signs almost as alarming."

Abbey saw the wisdom of that and deactivated the bracelet before setting it aside. "I could hang it on the outside doorknob. That’d make a great _Do Not Disturb_ sign."

"Would it ever."

Her smile segueing towards coquettish, she stood and offered him her open hands.

Under almost any other circumstances he would have risen first and lifted _her_ up, but Jed didn’t complain this time. He needed the help to get his weight up onto his legs once more... and his pending reward more than made up for this reversal of roles. With only a nominal amount of assistance, he stood as well, both of his hands holding both of hers.

They maintained that pose for several seconds, drinking in the presence of each other and the life they had shared. Then the President turned sideways and offered the First Lady his arm. Just like a bridegroom escorting his bride.

"This is a day of celebration. So let’s celebrate."

She accepted the noble gesture. Just like a bride to her groom. "Let’s."

Yes, they had a lot to celebrate. A past of forty glorious years, punctuated by troubles shared and surmounted; a present of fresh hope, born in the promise of new health; and a future of mutual potential that – regardless of what else it held – would be spent together.

*****

**Selflessness Catholic Prayer**

O Dearly beloved Word of God, teach me to be generous, to serve Thee as Thou dost deserve, to give without counting the cost, to fight without fretting at my wounds, to labor without seeking rest, to spend myself without looking for any reward other than that of knowing that I do Thy holy will. Amen.

*****

_"The man is a force of nature."_

_– C.J. Cregg about Jed Bartlet_

*****

* With special thanks to Anne, Kathleen and Kelly, e-pals extraordinaire.

_– SheilaVR. (Jubilate); May 2005_


End file.
